..:   • 


THE  GOLDEN  WHALES 
OF  CALIFORNIA' 

AND  OTHER  RHYMES  IN  THE 
AMERICAN  LANGUAGE 


BY 

VACHEL  LINDSAY 


gotb 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

1920 
All  rights  reserved 


For  permission  ip  reprint  some  of  the  verses  in  this 
volume  the  author  is  indebted  to  the  courtesy  of  the 
editors  and  publishers  of  The  Chicago  Daily  News,  Po 
etry  (Chicago),  Contemporary  Verse,  The  New  Repub 
lic,  The  Forum,  Books  and  the  Book  World  of  the  New 
York  Sun,  Others,  The  Red  Cross  Magazine,  Youth, 
The  Independent,  and  William  Stanley  Braithwaite's 
anthology  entitled  "  Victory." 


TABLE  OF  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

A  WORD    ON    CALIFORNIA,    PHOTOPLAYS,    AND   SAINT 

FRANCIS xiii 

FIRST  SECTION 
THE  LONGER  PIECES,  WITH  INTERLUDES 

THE  GOLDEN  WHALES  OF  CALIFORNIA $ 

KALAMAZOO .11 

JOHN  L.  SULLIVAN,  THE  STRONG  BOY  OF  BOSTON  .      .  14< 

BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN 18 

RAMESES  II 31 

MOSES ...  32 

A  RHYME  FOR  ALL  ZIONISTS 33 

A  MEDITATION  ON  THE  SUN .38 

DANTE 42 

THE  COMET  OF  PROPHECY 43 

SHANTUNG,  OR  THE  EMPIRE  OF  CHINA  Is  CRUMBLING 

DOWN 46 

THE  LAST  SONG  OF  LUCIFER 59 

SECOND  SECTION 

A   RHYMED    SCENARIO,    SOME    POEM    GAMES,    AND 
THE    LIKE 

A  DOLL'S  "  ARABIAN  NIGHTS  "....»..  71 

THE  LAME  BOY  AND  THE  FAIRY ,     .      .  77 

THE  BLACKSMITH'S  SERENADE ,      .  83 

THE  APPLE  BLOSSOM  SNOW  BLUES 87 

THE  DANIEL  JAZZ  91 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

WHEN     PETER    JACKSON     PREACHED    IN    THE    OLD 

CHURCH 95 

THE  CONSCIENTIOUS  DEACON 97 

DAVY  JONES'  DOOR-BELL 99 

THE  SEA  SERPENT  CHANTEY 101 

THE  LITTLE  TURTLE 104 

THIRD  SECTION 

COBWEBS  AND  CABLES 

THE  SCIENTIFIC  ASPIRATION 107 

THE  VISIT  TO  MAB 108 

THE  SONG  OF  THE  STURDY  SNAILS 110 

ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THE  SCIENTIFIC  ASPIRATION     .      .113 

DANCING  FOR  A  PRIZE 114 

COLD  SUNBEAMS 116 

FOR  ALL  WHO  EVER  SENT  LACE  VALENTINES  .  .  .117 
MY  LADY  Is  COMPARED  TO  A  YOUNG  TREE  .  .  .  .120 
To  EVE,  MAN'S  DREAM  OF  WIFEHOOD,  AS  DESCRIBED 

BY  MILTON 121 

A  KIND  OF  SCORN 123 

HARPS  IN  HEAVEN 125 

THE  CELESTIAL  CIRCUS 126 

THE  FIRE-LADDIE,  LOVE 128 

FOURTH  SECTION 

RHYMES    CONCERNING   THE    LATE   WORLD   WAR5   AND    THE 
NEXT    WAR 

IN  MEMORY  OF  MY  FRIEND  JOYCE  KILMER,  POET  AND 

SOLDIER 133 

THE  TIGER  ON  PARADE .      .      ,136 

THE  FEVER  CALLED  WAR 137 

STANZAS  IN  JUST  THE  RIGHT  TONE  FOR  THE  SPIRITED 

GENTLEMAN  WHO  WOULD  CONQUER  MEXICO  .      .138 
THE  MODEST  JAZZ-BIRD  .  140 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  STATUE  OP  OLD  ANDREW  JACKSON       ....   144 

SEW  THE  FLAGS  TOGETHER .    146 

JUSTINIAN 149 

THE  VOICE  OF  ST.  FRANCIS  OF  ASSISI 150 

IN  WHICH  ROOSEVELT  Is  COMPARED  TO  SAUL     .      .      .151 
HAIL  TO  THE  SONS  OF  ROOSEVELT     .      .      .      .      .      .153 

THE  SPACIOUS  DAYS  OF  ROOSEVELT 155 

FIFTH  SECTION 

RHYMES   OF   THE   MIDDLE    WEST    AND    SPRINGFIELD, 
ILLINOIS 

WHEN  THE  MISSISSIPPI  FLOWED  IN  INDIANA       .      .      .159 

THE  FAIRY  FROM  THE  APPLE-SEED 161 

A  HOT  TIME  IN  THE  OLD  TOWN 163 

THE  DREAM  OF  ALL  OF  THE  SPRINGFIELD  WRITERS     .    166 

THE  SPRINGFIELD  OF  THE  FAR  FUTURE 168 

AFTER   READING  THE   SAD   STORY  OF  THE   FALL  OF 

BABYLON 170 

ALEXANDER  CAMPBELL »     . 


A  WORD  ON  CALIFORNIA,  PHOTOPLAYS, 
AND  SAINT  FRANCIS 

In  The  Art  of  the  Moving  Picture,  in  the  chapter  on 
California  and  America,  I  said,  in  part: 

"  The  moving  picture  captains  of  industry,  like  the 
California  gold  finders  of  1849,  making  colossal  for 
tunes  in  two  or  three  years,  have  the  same  glorious 
irresponsibility  and  occasional  need  of  the  sheriff. 
They  are  Californians  more  literally  than  this.  Around 
Los  Angeles  the  greatest  and  most  characteristic  moving 
picture  colonies  are  built.  Each  photoplay  magazine 
has  its  California  letter,  telling  of  the  putting  up  of  new 
studios,  and  the  transfer  of  actors  with  much  slap-you- 
on-the-back  personal  gossip. 

"...  Every  type  of  the  photoplay  but  the  intimate 
is  founded  on  some  phase  of  the  out-of  doors.  Being 
thus  dependent,  the  plant  can  best  be  set  up  where  there 
is  no  winter.  Besides  this,  the  Los  Angeles  region 
has  the  sea,  the  mountains,  the  desert,  and  many  kinds 
of  grove  and  field.  .  .  . 

"  If  the  photoplay  is  the  consistent  utterance  of  its 
scenes,  if  the  actors  are  incarnations  of  the  land  they 

xiii 


xiv  A  WORD  ON  CALIFORNIA 

walk  upon,  as  they  should  be,  California  indeed  stands 
a  chance  to  achieve  through  the  films  an  utterance  of 
her  own.  Will  this  land,  furthest  west,  be  the  first  to 
capture  the  inner  spirit  of  this  newest  and  most  curious 
of  tjhe  arts?  .  .  . 

"  People  who  revere  the  Pilgrim  Fathers  of  1620  have 
often  wished  those  gentlemen  had  moored  their  bark  in 
the  region  of  Los  Angeles,  rather  than  Plymouth  Rock, 
that  Boston  had  been  founded  there.  At  last  that  land 
ing  is  achieved. 

"  Patriotic  art  students  have  discussed  with  mingled 
irony  and  admiration  the  Boston  domination  of  the 
only  American  culture  of  the  nineteenth  century, 
namely,  literature.  Indianapolis  has  had  her  day  since 
then.  Chicago  is  lifting  her  head.  Nevertheless  Bos 
ton  still  controls  the  text-book  in  English,  and  domi 
nates  our  high  schools.  Ironic  feelings  in  this  matter, 
on  the  part  of  western  men,  are  based  somewhat  on 
envy  and  illegitimate  cussedness,  but  are  also  grounded 
in  the  honest  hope  of  a  healthful  rivalry.  They  want 
new  romanticists  and  artists  as  indigenous  to  their  soil 
as  was  Hawthorne  to  witch-haunted  Salem,  or  Long 
fellow  to  the  chestnuts  of  his  native  heath.  Whatever 
may  be  said  of  the  patriarchs,  from  Oliver  Wendell 
Holmes  to  Amos  Bronson  Alcott,  they  were  true  sons 


A  WORD  ON  CALIFORNIA  xv 

of  the  New  England  stone  fences  and  meeting  houses. 
They  could  not  have  been  born  or  nurtured  anywhere 
else  on  the  face  of  the  earth. 

"  Some  of  us  view  with  a  peculiar  thrill  the  prospect 
that  Los  Angeles  may  become  the  Boston  of  the  photo 
play.  Perhaps  it  would  be  better  to  say  the  Florence, 
because  California  reminds  one  of  colorful  Italy,  more 
than  of  any  part  of  the  United  States.  Yet  there  is  a 
difference. 

"  The  present  day  man-in-the-street,  man-about- 
town  Californian  has  an  obvious  magnificence  about  him 
that  is  allied  to  the  eucalyptus  tree,  the  pomegran 
ate.  .  .  . 

"  The  enemy  of  California  says  the  state  is  mag 
nificent,  but  thin.  He  declares  it  is  as  though  it  were 
painted  on  a  Brobdingnagian  piece  of  gilt  paper,  and 
he  who  dampens  his  finger  and  thrusts  it  through  finds 
an  alkali  valley  on  the  other  side,  the  lonely  prickly 
pear,  and  a  heap  of  ashes  from  a  deserted  camp-fire. 
He  says  the  citizens  of  this  state  lack  the  richness  of 
an  aesthetic  and  religious  tradition.  He  says  there  is 
no  substitute  for  time.  But  even  these  things  make  for 
coincidence.  This  apparent  thinness  California  has  in 
common  with  the  routine  photoplay,  which  is  at  times 
as  shallow  in  its  thought  as  the  shadow  it  throws  upon 


xvi  A  WORD  ON  CALIFORNIA 

the  screen.  This  newness  California  has  in  common 
with  all  photoplays.  It  is  thrillingly  possible  for  the 
state  and  the  art  to  acquire  spiritual  tradition  and 
depth  together. 

"  Part  of  the  thinness  of  California  is  not  only  its 
youth,  but  the  result  of  the  physical  fact  that  the 
human  race  is  there  spread  over  so  many  acres  of 
land.  "  Good "  Californians  count  their  mines  and 
enumerate  their  palm  trees.  They  count  the  miles 
of  their  sea-coast,  and  the  acres  under  cultivation  and 
the  height  of  the  peaks,  and  revel  in  large  statistics 
and  the  bigness  generally,  and  forget  how  a  few  men 
rattle  around  in  a  great  deal  of  scenery.  They  shout 
the  statistics  across  the  Rockies  and  the  deserts  to  New 
York.  The  Mississippi  valley  is  non-existent  to  the 
Californian.  His  fellow-feeling  is  for  the  opposite 
coast  line.  Through  the  geographical  accident  of  sepa 
ration  by  mountain  and  desert  from  the  rest  of  the 
country,  he  becomes  a  mere  shouter,  hurrahing  so  as 
siduously  that  all  variety  in  the  voice  is  lost.  Then  he 
tries  gestures,  and  becomes  flamboyant,  rococo. 

"  These  are  the  defects  of  the  motion  picture  quali 
ties.  Also  its  panoramic  tendency  runs  wild.  As  an 
institution  it  advertises  itself  with  a  sweeping  gesture. 
It  has  the  same  passion  for  coast-line.  These  are  not 


A  WORD  ON  CALIFORNIA  xvii 

the  sins  of  New  England.  When,  in  the  hands  of  mas 
ters,  they  become  sources  of  strength,  they  will  be  a 
different  set  of  virtues  from  those  of  New  England.  .  .  . 
"  When  the  Californian  relegates  the  dramatic  to  sec 
ondary  scenes,  both  in  his  life  and  his  photoplay,  and 
turns  to  the  genuinely  epic  and  lyric,  he  and  this  in 
strument  may  find  their  immortality  together  as  New 
England  found  its  soul  in  the  essays  of  Emerson.  Tide 
upon  tide  of  Spring  comes  into  California,  through  all 
four  seasons.  Fairy  beauty  overwhelms  the  lumbering 
grand-stand  players.  The  tiniest  garden  is  a  jewelled 
pathway  of  wonder.  But  the  Californian  cannot  shout 
'  orange  blossoms,  orange  blossoms ;  heliotrope,  helio 
trope.'  He  cannot  boom  forth  '  roseleaves,  rose- 
leaves  '  so  that  he  does  their  beauties  justice.  Here  is 
where  the  photoplay  can  begin  to  give  him  a  more  deli 
cate  utterance.  And  he  can  go  on  into  stranger  things, 
and  evolve  all  the  Splendor  Films  into  higher  types, 
for  the  very  name  of  California  is  splendor.  .  .  .  The 
California  photoplaywright  can  base  his  Crowd  Pic 
ture  upon  the  city-worshipping  mobs  of  San  Francisco. 
He  can  derive  his  Patriotic  and  Religious  Splendors 
from  something  older  and  more  magnificent  than  the 
aisles  of  the  Romanesque,  namely:  the  groves  of  the 
giant  redwoods. 


xviii  A  WORD  ON  CALIFORNIA 

"  The  campaigns  for  a  beautiful  nation  could  very 
well  emanate  from  the  west  coast,  where,  with  the  slight 
est  care,  grow  up  models  for  all  the  world  of  plant 
arrangement  and  tree-luxury.  Our  mechanical  east  is 
reproved,  our  tension  is  relaxed,  our  ugliness  is  chal 
lenged,  every  time  we  look  upon  those  garden-paths  and 
forests. 

"  It  is  possible  for  Los  Angeles  to  lay  hold  of  the 
motion  picture  as  our  national  text  book  in  art,  as  Bos 
ton  appropriated  to  herself  the  guardianship  of  the 
national  text  book  of  literature.  If  California  has  a 
shining  soul,  and  not  merely  a  golden  body,  let  her 
forget  her  seventeen  year  old  melodramatics,  and  turn 
to  her  poets  who  understand  the  heart  underneath  the 
glory.  Edwin  Markham,  the  dean  of  American  singers, 
Clark  Ashton  Smith,  the  young  star-treader,  George 
Sterling  .  .  .  have,  in  their  songs,  seeds  of  better 
scenarios  than  California  has  sent  us.  ... 

"  California  can  tell  us  stories  that  are  grim  children 
of  the  tales  of  the  wild  Ambrose  Bierce.  Then  there 
is  the  lovely  unforgotten  Nora  May  French,  and  the 
austere  Edward  Rowland  Sill.  .  .  ." 

All  this  from  The  Art  of  the  Movwg  Picture  may 
serve  to  answer  many  questions  I  have  been  asked  as  to 
my  general  ideas  in  the  realms  of  art  and  verse,  and 


A  WORD  ON  CALIFORNIA  xix 

it  may  more  particularly  elucidate  my  personal  attitude 
toward  California. 

One  item  that  should  perhaps  chasten  the  native  son, 
is  that  these  motion  picture  people,  so  truly  the  hope 
of  California,  are  not  native  sons  or  daughters. 

When  I  was  in  Los  Angeles,  visiting  my  cousin  Ruby 
Vachel  Lindsay,  we  discussed  many  of  these  items  at 
great  length,  as  we  walked  about  the  Los  Angeles  region 
together.  I  owe  much  of  my  conception  of  the  more 
idealistic  moods  of  the  state  to  those  conversations. 
Others  who  have  shown  me  what  might  be  called  the 
Franciscan  soul,  of  the  Franciscan  minority,  are  Pro 
fessor  and  Mrs.  E.  Olan  James,  my  host  and  hostess 
at  Mills  College.  Another  discriminating  interpreter 
of  the  coast  is  that  follower  of  Alexander  Campbell, 
Peter  Clark  Macfarlane,  to  whom  I  owe  much  of  my 
hope  for  a  state  that  will  some  day  gleam  with  spiritual 
and  Franciscan,  and  not  earthly  gold. 

When  I  think  of  California,  I  think  so  emphatically 
of  these  people  and  the  things  they  have  to  say  to  the 
native  sons,  and  the  rest,  that  if  the  discussion  in  this 
volume  is  not  considered  conclusive,  I  refer  the  reader  to 
these,  and  to  the  California  poets,  and  to  motion  pic 
ture  people  like  Anita  Loos  and  John  Emerson,  people 
who  still  dream  of  things  that  are  not  gilded,  and  know 


XX 


A  WORD  ON  CALIFORNIA 


the  difference  for  instance,  between  St.  Francis  and 
Mammon.  For  a  general  view  of  those  poets  of 
California  who  make  clear  its  spiritual  gold,  turn  to 
"  Golden  Songs  of  the  Golden  State,"  an  anthology  col 
lected  by  Marguerite  Wilkinson. 


FIRST  SECTION 
THE  LONGER  PIECES,  WITH  INTERLUDES 


THE  GOLDEN  WHALES  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Part  I.     A  Short  Walk  Along  the  Coast 

Yes,  I  have  walked  in  California, 

And  the  rivers  there  are  blue  and  white. 

Thunderclouds  of  grapes  hang  on  the  mountains. 

Bears  in  the  meadows  pitch  and  fight. 

(Limber,  double- jointed  lords  of  fate, 

Proud  native  sons  of  the  Golden  Gate.) 

And  flowers  burst  like  bombs  in  California, 

Exploding  on  tomb  and  tower. 

And  the  panther-cats  chase  the  red  rabbits, 

Scatter  their  young  blood  every  hour. 

And  the  cattle  on  the  hills  of  California 

And  the  very  swine  in  the  holes 

Have  ears  of  silk  and  velvet 

And  tusks  like  long  white  poles. 

And  the  very  swine,  big  hearted, 

Walk  with  pride  to  their  doom 

For  they  feed  on  the  sacred  raisins 

Where  the  great  black  agates  loom. 


4       GOLDEN  WHALES  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Goshawfuls  are  Burbanked  with  the  grizzly  bears. 

At  midnight  their  children  come  clanking  up  the  stairs. 

They  wriggle  up  the  canyons, 

Nose  into  the  caves, 

And  swallow  the  papooses  and  the  Indian  braves. 

The  trees  climb  so  high  the  crows  are  dizzy 

Flying  to  their  nests  at  the  top. 

While  the  jazz-birds  screech,  and  storm  the  brazen 
beach 

And  the  sea-stars  turn  flip  flop. 

The  solid  Golden  Gate  soars  up  to  Heaven. 

Perfumed  cataracts  are  hurled 

From  the  zones  of  silver  snow 

To  the  ripening  rye  below, 

To  the  land  of  the  lemon  and  the  nut 

And  the  biggest  ocean  in  the  world. 

While  the  Native  Sons,  like  lords  tremendous 

Lift  up  their  heads  with  chants  sublime, 

And  the  band-stands  sound  the  trombone,  the  saxo 
phone  and  xylophone 

And  the  whales  roar  in  perfect  tune  and  time. 

And  the  chanting  of  the  whales  of  California 

I  have  set  my  heart  upon. 

It  is  sometimes  a  play  by  Belasco, 

Sometimes  a  tale  of  Prester  John. 


GOLDEN  WHALES  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Part  II.     The  Chanting  of  the  Whales 

North  to  the  Pole,  south  to  the  Pole 

The  whales   of  California  wallow  and  roll. 

They  dive  and  breed  and  snort  and  play 

And  the  sun  struck  feed  them  every  day 

Boatloads  of  citrons,  quinces,  cherries, 

Of  bloody  strawberries,  plums  and  beets, 

Hogsheads  of  pomegranates,  vats  of  sweets, 

And  the  he-whales'  chant  like  a  cyclone  blares, 

Proclaiming   the   California   noons 

So  gloriously  hot  some  days 

The  snake  is  fried  in  the  desert 

And  the  flea  no  longer  plays. 

There  are  ten  gold  suns  in  California 

When  all  other  lands  have  one, 

For  the  Golden  Gate  must  have  due  light 

And  persimmons  be  well-done. 

And  the  hot  whales  slosh  and  cool  in  the  wash 

And  the  fume  of  the  hollow  sea. 

Rally  and  roam  in  the  loblolly  foam 

And  whoop  that  their  souls  are  free. 

(Limber,  double- jointed  lords  of  fate, 

Proud  native  sons  of  the  Golden  Gate.) 

And  they  chant  of  the  forty-niners 


6          GOLDEN  WHALES  OF  CALIFORNIA 

Who  sailed  round  the  cape  for  their  loot 

With  guns  and  picks  and  washpans 

And  a  dagger  in  each  boot. 

How  the  richest  became  the  King  of  England, 

The  poorest  became  the  King  of  Spain, 

The  bravest  a  colonel  in  the  army, 

And  a  mean  one  went  insane. 

The  ten  gold  suns  are  so  blasting 

The  sunstruck  scoot  for  the  sea 

And  turn  to  mermen  and  mermaids 

And  whoop  that  their  souls  are  free. 

(Limber,  double- jointed  lords  of  fate, 

Proud  native  sons  of  the  Golden  Gate.) 

And  they  take  young  whales  for  their  bronchos 

And  old  whales  for  their  steeds, 

Harnessed  with  golden  seaweeds, 

And  driven  with  golden  reeds. 

They  dance  on  the  shore  throwing  rose-leaves. 

They  kiss  all  night  throwing  hearts. 

They  fight  like  scalded  wildcats 

When  the  least  bit  of  fighting  starts. 

They  drink,  these  belly-busting  devils 

And  their  tremens  shake  the  ground. 

And  then  they  repent  like  whirlwinds 


GOLDEN  WHALES  OF  CALIFORNIA 

And  never  were  such  saints  found. 

They  will  give  you  their  plug  tobacco. 

They  will  give  you  the  shirts  off  their  backs. 

They  will  cry  for  your  every  sorrow, 

Put  ham  in  your  haversacks. 

And  they  feed  the  cuttlefishes,  whales  and  skates 

With  dates  and  figs  in  bales  and  crates :  — 

Shiploads  of  sweet  potatoes,  peanuts,  rutabagas, 

Honey  in  hearts  of  gourds: 

Grapefruits  and  oranges  barrelled  with  apples, 

And  spices  like  sharp  sweet  swords. 

Part  III.     St.  Francis  of  San  Francisco 

But  the  surf  is  white,  down  the  long  strange  coast 
With  breasts  that  shake  with  sighs, 
And  the  ocean  of  all  oceans 
Holds  salt  from  weary  eyes. 

St.  Francis  comes  to  his  city  at  night 

And  stands  in  the  brilliant  electric  light 

And  his  swans  that  prophesy  night  and  day 

Would  soothe  his  heart  that  wastes  away : 

The  giant  swans  of  California 

That  nest  on  the  Golden  Gate 

And  beat  through  the  clouds  serenely 


8          GOLDEN  WHALES  OF  CALIFORNIA 

And  on  St.  Francis  wait. 

But  St.  Francis  shades  his  face  in  his  cowl 

And  stands  in  the  street  like  a  lost  grey  owl. 

He  thinks  of  gold  .  .  .  gold. 

He  sees  on  far  redwoods 

Dewfall  and  dawning: 

Deep  in  Yosemite 

Shadows   and  shrines: 

He  hears  from  far  valleys 

Prayers  by  young  Christians, 

He  sees  their  due  penance 

So  cruel,  so  cold ; 

He  sees  them  made  holy, 

White-souled  like  young  aspens 

With  whimsies  and  fancies  untold:  — 

The  opposite  of  gold. 

And  the  mighty  mountain  swans  of  California 

Whose  eggs  are  like  mosque  domes  of  Ind, 

Cry  with  curious  notes 

That  their  eggs  are  good  for  boats 

To  toss  upon  the  foam  and  the  wind. 

He  beholds  on  far  rivers 

The  venturesome  lovers 

Sailing  for  the  sea 

All  night 


GOLDEN  WHALES  OF  CALIFORNIA          9 

In  swanshells  white. 

He  sees  them  far  on  the  ocean  prevailing 

In  a  year  and  a  month  and  a  day  of  sailing 

Leaving  the  whales  and  their  whoop  unfailing 

On  through  the  lightning,  ice  and  confusion 

North  of  the  North  Pole, 

South  of  the  jgouth  Pole, 

And  west  of  the  west  of  the  west  of  the  west, 

To  the  shore  of  Heartache's   Cure, 

The  opposite  of  gold, 

On  and  on  like  Columbus 

With  faith  and  eggshell  sure. 

Part  IV.     The  Voice  of  the  Earthquake 

But  what  is  the  earthquake's  cry  at  last 
Making  St.  Francis  yet  aghast:  — 

"  Oh  the  flashing  cornucopia  of  haughty     From  here  on, 

.  the  audience 

California  joins  in  the 


Is  gold,  gold,  gold. 

Their  brittle  speech  and  their  clutching 

reach 

Is  gold,  gold,  gold. 

What  is  the  fire-engine's  ding  dong  bell? 
The  burden  of  the  burble  of  the  bull-frog  in  the  well? 
Gold,  gold,  gold. 


10        GOLDEN  WHALES  OF  CALIFORNIA 

What  is  the  color  of  the  cup  and  plate 

And  knife  and  fork  of  the  chief  of  state? 

Gold,  gold,  gold. 

What  is  the  flavor  of  the  Bartlett  pear? 

What  is  the  savor  of  the  salt  sea  air? 

Gold,  gold,  gold. 

What  is  the  color  of  the  sea-girl's  hair? 

Gold,  gold,  gold. 

In  the  church  of  Jesus  and  the  streets  of  Venus:  — 

Gold,  gold,  gold. 

What  color  are  the  cradle  and  the  bridal  bed? 

What  color  are  the  coffins  of  the  great  grey  dead? 

Gold,  gold,  gold. 

What  is  the  hue  of  the  big  whales'  hide? 

Gold,  gold,  gold. 

What  is  the  color,  of  their  guts*  inside? 

Gold,  gold,  gold. 

"  What  is  the  color  of  the  pumpkins  in  the  moonlight? 
Gold,  gold,  gold. 

The  color  of  the  moth  and  the  worm  in  the  starlight? 
Gold,  gold,  gold.9' 


KALAMAZOQ 


KALAMAZOO 

Once,  in  the  city  of  Kalamazoo, 

The  gods  went  walking,  two  and  two, 

With  the  friendly  phoenix,  the  stars  of  Orion, 

The  speaking  pony  and  singing  lion. 

For  in  Kalamazoo  in  a  cottage  apart 

Lived  the  girl  with  the  innocent 


Thenceforth  the  city  of  Kalamazoo 

Was   the  envied,  intimate  chum  of  the  sun. 

He  rose  from  a  cave  by  the  principal  street. 

The  lions  sang,  the  dawn-horns  blew, 

And  the  ponies  danced  on  silver  feet. 

He  hurled  his  clouds  of  love  around  ; 

Deathless  colors  of  his  old  heart 

Draped  the  houses  and  dyed  the  ground. 

Oh  shrine  of  the  wide  young  Yankee  land, 

Incense  city  of  Kalamazoo, 

That  held,  in  the  midnight,  the  priceless  sun 

As  a  jeweller  holds  an  opal  in  hand! 


18  KALAMAZOO 

From  the  awkward  city  of  Oshkosh  came 

Love  the  bully  no  whip  shall  tame, 

Bringing  his  gang  of  sinners  bold. 

And  I  was  the  least  of  his  Oshkosh  men; 

But  none  were  reticent,  none  were  old. 

And  we  joined  the  singing  phoenix  then, 

And  shook  the  lilies  of  Kalamazoo 

All  for  one  hidden  butterfly. 

Bulls  of  glory,  in  cars  of  war 

We   charged   the  boulevards,   proud   to   die 

For  her  ribbon  sailing  there  on  high. 

Our  blood  set  gutters   all  aflame, 

Where  the  sun  slept  without  any  shame, 

Cold  rock  till  he  must  rise  again. 

She  made  great  poets  of  wolf-eyed  men  — 

The  dear  queen-bee  of  Kalamazoo, 

With  her  crystal  wings,  and  her  honey  heart. 

We  fought  for  her  favors  a  year  and  a  day 

(Oh,  the  bones  of  the  dead,  the  Oshkosh  dead, 

That  were  scattered  along  her  pathway  red!) 

And  then,  in  her  harum-scarum  way, 

She  left  with  a  passing  traveller-man-— 

With  a  singing  Irishman 

Went  to  Japan. 


KALAMAZOO  13 

Why  do  the  lean  hyenas  glare 

Where  the  .glory  of  Artemis  had  begun  — 

Of  Atalanta,  Joan  of  Arc, 

Lorna  Doone,  Rosy  O'Grady, 

And  Orphant  Annie,  all  in  one? 

Who  burned  this  city  of  Kalamazoo 

Till  nothing  was  left  but  a  ribbon  or  two  — 

One  scorched  phoenix  that  mourned  in  the  dew, 

Acres  of  ashes,  a  junk-man's  cart, 

A  torn-up  letter,  a  dancing  shoe, 

(And  the  bones  of  the  valiant  dead)? 

Who  burned  this  city  of  Kalamazoo  — > 

Love-town,  Troy-town  Kalamazoo? 

A  harum-scarum  innocent  heart. 


JOHN  L.  SULLIVAN 


JOHN  L.  SULLIVAN,  THE  STRONG  BOY  OF 
BOSTON 

Inscribed  to  Louis  Untermeyer  and  Robert  Frost 

When  I  was  nine  years  old,  in  1889 

I  sent  my  love  a  lacy  Valentine. 

Suffering  boys  were  dressed  like  Fauntleroys, 

While  Judge  and  Puck  in  giant  humor  vied. 

The  Gibson  Girl  came  shining  like  a  bride 

To  spoil  the  cult  of  Tennyson's  Elaine. 

Louisa  Alcott  was  my  gentle  guide.  .  .  . 

Then  .  .  . 

I  heard  a  battle  trumpet  sound. 

Nigh  New  Orleans 

Upon  an  emerald  plain 

John  L.  Sullivan 

The  strong  boy 

Of  Boston 

Fought  seventy-five  red  rounds  with  Jake  Kilrain. 

In  simple  sheltered  1889 

Nick  Carter  I  would  piously  deride. 


JOHN  L.  SULLIVAN  15 

Over  the  Elsie  Books  I  moped  and  sighed. 

St.  Nicholas  Magazine  was  all  my  pride, 

While  coarser  boys  on  cellar  doors  would  slide. 

The  grown  ups  bought  refinement  by  the  pound. 

Rogers  groups  had  not  been  told  to  hide. 

E.  P.  Roe  had  just  begun  to  wane. 

Howells  was  rising,  surely  to  attain! 

The  nation  for  a  jamboree  was  gowned:  — 

Her  hundredth  year  of  roaring  freedom  crowned. 

The  British  Lion  ran  and  hid  from  Blaine 

The  razzle-dazzle  hip-hurrah  from  Maine. 

The  mocking  bird  was  singing  in  the  lane.  .  .  . 

Yet  ... 

"  East  side,  west  side,  all  around  the  town 

The  tots  sang:  'Ring  a  rosie — ' 

6  London  Bridge  is  falling  down.' ' 

And  .  .  . 

John  L.  Sullivan 

The  strong  boy 

Of  Boston 

Broke  every  single  rib  of  Jake  Kilrain. 

In  dear  provincial  1889, 

Barnum's  bears  and  tigers  could  astound. 

Ingersoll  was  called  a  most  vile  hound, 


16  JOHN  L.  SULLIVAN 

And  named  with  Satan,  Judas,  Thomas  Paine ! 

Robert  Elsmere  riled  the  pious  brain. 

Phillips  Brooks  for  heresy  was  fried. 

Boston  Brahmins  patronized  Mark  Twain. 

The  base  ball  rules  were  changed.     That  was  a  gain. 

Pop  Anson  was  our  darling,  pet  and  pride. 

Native  sons  in  Irish  votes  were  drowned. 

Tammany  once  more  escaped  its  chain. 

Once  more  each  raw  saloon  was  raising  Cain. 

The  mocking  bird  was  singing  in  the  lane.  .  .  . 

Yet  ... 

"  East  side,  west  side,  all  around  the  town 

The  tots  sang :     '  Ring  a  rosie  ' 

'  London  Bridge  is  falling  down.'  " 

And  .  .  . 

John  L.  Sullivan 

The  strong  boy 

Of  Boston 

Finished  the  ring  career  of  Jake  Kilrain. 

>  4|  V 

In  mystic,  ancient  1889, 
Wilson  with  pure  learning  was  allied. 
Roosevelt  gave  forth  a  chirping  sound. 
Stanley  found  old  Emin  and  his  train. 
Stout  explorers  sought  the  pole  in  vain. 


JOHN  L.  SULLIVAN  17 

To  dream  of  flying  proved  a  man  insane. 

The  newly  rich  were  bathing  in  champagne. 

Van  Bibber  Davis,  at  a  single  bound 

Displayed  himself,  and  simpering  glory  found. 

John  J.  Ingalls,  like  a  lonely  crane 

Swore  and  swore,  and  stalked  the  Kansas  plain. 

The  Cronin  murder  was  the  ages'  stain. 

Johnstown  was  flooded,  and  the  whole  world  cried. 

We  heard  not  of  Louvain  nor  of  Lorraine, 

Or  a  million  heroes  for  their  freedom  slain. 

Of  Armageddon  and  the  world's  birth-pain  - 

The  League  of  Nations,  and  the  world  one  posy. 

We  thought  the  world  would  loaf  and  sprawl  and  mosey. 

The  gods  of  Yap  and  Swat  were  sweetly  dozy. 

We  thought  the  far  off  gods  of  Chow  had  died. 

The  mocking  bird  was  singing  in  the  lane.  .  .  . 

Yet  ... 

"  East  side,  west  side,  all  around  the  town 

The  tots  sang :  '  Ring  a  rosie  ' 

'  LONDON  BRIDGE  is  FALLING  DOWN.'  " 

And  .  .  . 

John  L.  Sullivan  knocked  out  Jake  Kilrain. 


18    BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN 


BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN 

The  Campaign  of  Eighteen  Nmety-six,  as  Viewed  at 
the  Time  by  a  Sixteen  Year  Old,  etc. 


In  a  nation  of  one  hundred  fine,  mob-hearted,  lynching, 
relenting,  repenting  millions, 

There  are  plenty  of  sweeping,  swinging,  stinging,  gor 
geous  things  to  shout  about, 

And  knock  your  old  blue  devils  out. 

I  brag  and  chant  of  Bryan,  Bryan,  Bryan, 
Candidate  for  president  who  sketched  a  silver  Zion, 
The  one  American  Poet  who  could  sing  out  doors. 
He  brought  in  tides  of  wonder,  of  unprecedented  splen 
dor, 

Wild  roses  from  the  plains,  that  made  hearts  tender, 
All  the  funny  circus  silks 
Of  politics  unfurled, 

Bartlett  pears  of  romance  that  were  honey  at  the  cores, 
And   torchlights   down   the  street,   to   the   end   of   the 
world. 


BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN    19 

There  were  truths  eternal  in  the  gab  and  tittle-tattle. 
There  were  real  heads  broken  in  the  fustian  and  the  rat 

tle. 

There  were  real  lines  drawn: 
Not  the  silver  and  the  gold, 
But  Nebraska's  cry  went  eastward  against  the  dour  and 

old, 
The  mean  and  cold. 

It  was  eighteen  ninety-six,  and  I  was  just  sixteen 

And  Altgeld  ruled  in  Springfield,  Illinois, 

When  there  came  from  the  sunset  Nebraska's  shout  of 


In  a  coat  like  a  deacon,  in  a  black  Stetson  hat 

He  scourged  the  elephant  plutocrats 

With  barbed  wire  from  the  Platte. 

The  scales  dropped  from  their  mighty  eyes. 

They  saw  that  summer's  noon 

A  tribe  of  wonders  coming 

To  a  marching  tune. 

Oh  the  long  horns  from  Texas, 

The  jay  hawks  from  Kansas, 

The  plop-eyed  bungaroo  and  giant  giassicus, 

The  varmint,  chipmunk,  bugaboo, 


20    BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN 

The  horned-toad,  prairie-dog  and  ballyhoo, 

From  all  the  new-born  states  arow, 

Bidding  the  eagles  of  the  west  fly  on, 

Bidding  the  eagles  of  the  west  fly  on. 

The  fawn,  prodactyl  and  thing-a-ma-jig, 

The  rakaboor,  the  hellangone, 

The  whangdoodle,  batfowl  and  pig, 

The  coyote,  wild-cat  and  grizzly  in  a  glow, 

In   a   miracle   of   health   and   speed,   the   whole   breed 

abreast, 

They  leaped  the  Mississippi,  blue  border  of  the  West, 
From  the  Gulf  to  Canada,  two  thousand  miles  long :  — 
Against  the  towns  of  Tubal  Cain, 
Ah, —  sharp  was  their  song. 
Against  the  ways  of  Tubal  Cain,  too  cunning  for  the 

young, 
The   long-horn    calf,    the   buffalo    and    wampus    gave 

tongue. 

These  creatures  were  defending  things  Mark  Hanna 

never  dreamed: 
The   moods    of    airy    childhood   that   in    desert    dews 

gleamed, 

The  gossamers  and  whimsies, 
The  monkeyshines  and  didoes 


BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN    21 

Rank  and  strange 

Of  the  canyons  and  the  range, 

The  ultimate  fantastics 

Of  the  far  western  slope, 

And  of  prairie  schooner  children 

Born  beneath  the  stars, 

Beneath  falling  snows, 

Of  the  babies  born  at  midnight 

In  the  sod  huts  of  lost  hope, 

With  no  physician  there, 

Except  a  Kansas  prayer, 

With  the  Indian  raid  a  howling  through  the  air. 

And  all  these  in  their  helpless  days 

By  the  dour  East  oppressed, 

Mean  paternalism 

Making  their  mistakes  for  them, 

Crucifying  half  the  West, 

Till  the  whole  Atlantic  coast 

Seemed  a  giant  spiders'  nest. 

And  these  children  and  their  sons 
At  last  rode  through  the  cactus, 
A  cliff  of  mighty  cowboys 
On  the  lope, 


22    BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN 

With  gun  and  rope. 

And  all  the  way  to  frightened  Maine  the  old  East  heard 

them  call, 

And  saw  our  Bryan  by  a  mile  lead  the  wall 
Of  men  and  whirling  flowers  and  beasts, 
The  bard  and  the  prophet  of  them  all. 
Prairie  avenger,  mountain  lion, 
Bryan,  Bryan,  Bryan,  Bryan, 
Gigantic  troubadour,  speaking  like  a  siege  gun, 
Smashing  Plymouth  Rock  with  his  boulders  from  the 

West, 
And  just  a  hundred  miles  behind,  tornadoes  piled  across 

the  sky, 

Blotting  out  sun  and  moon, 
A  sign  on  high. 

Headlong,  dazed  and  blinking  in  the  weird  green  light, 
The  scalawags  made  moan, 
Afraid  to  fight. 

II 

When  Bryan  came  to  Springfield,  and  Altgeld  gave  him 

greeting, 

Rochester  was  deserted,  Divernon  was  deserted, 
Mechanicsburg,  Riverton,  Chickenbristle,  Cotton  Hill, 


BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN    23 

Empty:  for  all  Sangamon  drove  to  the  meeting  — 

In  silver-decked  racing  cart, 

Buggy,  blackboard,  carryall, 

Carriage,  phaeton,  whatever  would  haul, 

And    silver-decked    farm-wagons    gritted,   banged    and 

rolled, 
With  the  new  tale  of  Bryan  by  the  iron  tires  told. 

V 

The  State  House  loomed  afar, 

A  speck,  a  hive,  a  football, 

A  captive  balloon ! 

And  the  town  was  all  one  spreading  wing  of  bunting, 

plumes,  and  sunshine, 

Every  rag  and  flag,  and  Bryan  picture  sold, 
When  the  rigs  in  many  a  dusty  line 
Jammed  our  streets  at  noon, 
And  joined  the  wild  parade  against  the  power  of  gold. 

We  roamed,  we  boys  from  High  School 

With  mankind, 

While  Springfield  gleamed, 

Silk-lined. 

Oh  Tom  Dines,  and  Art  Fitzgerald, 

And  the  gangs  that  they  could  get! 

I  can  hear  them  yelling  yet. 


24    BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN 

Helping  the  incantation, 
Defying  aristocracy, 
With  every  bridle  gone, 
Ridding  the  world  of  the  low  down  mean, 
Bidding  the  eagles  of  the  West  fly  on, 
Bidding  the  eagles  of  the  West  fly  on, 
We  were  bully,  wild  and  wooly, 
Never  yet  curried  below  the  knees. 
We  saw  flowers  in  the  air, 
Fair  as  the  Pleiades,  bright  as  Orion, 
—  Hopes  of  all  mankind, 
Made  rare,  resistless,  thrice  refined. 
Oh  we  bucks  from  every  Springfield  ward! 
Colts  of  democracy  — 

Yet  time-winds  out  of  Chaos  from  the  star-fields  of  the 
Lord. 

The  long  parade  rolled  on.     I  stood  by  my  best  girl. 
She  was  a  cool  young  citizen,  with  wise  'and  laughing 

eyes. 

With  my  necktie  by  my  ear,  I  was  stepping  on  my  dear, 
But  she  kept  like  a  pattern,  without  a  shaken  curl. 

She  wore  in  her  hair  a  brave  prairie  rose. 

Her  gold  chums  cut  her,  for  that  was  not  the  pose. 


BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN    2 

No  Gibson  Girl  would  wear  it  in  that  fresh  way. 
But  we  were  fairy  Democrats,  and  this  was  our  day. 

The  earth  rocked  like  the  ocean,  the  sidewalk  was 

deck. 

The  houses  for  the  moment  were  lost  in  the  wide  wrec 
And  the  bands  played  strange  and  stranger  music 

they  trailed  along. 
Against  the  ways  of  Tubal  Cain, 
Ah,  sharp  was  their  song ! 

The  demons  in  the  bricks,  the  demons  in  the  grass, 
The  demons  in  the  bank-vaults  peered  out  to  see  us  pa; 
And  the  angels  in  the  trees,  the  angels  in  the  grass, 
The  angels  in  the  flags,  peered  out  to  see  us  pass. 
And   the   sidewalk  was   our   chariot,   and   the   flow* 

bloomed  higher, 
And  the  street  turned  to  silver  and  the  grass  turned 

fire, 
And  then  it  was  but  grass,  and  the  town  was  th< 

again, 
A  place  for  women 


Then  we  stood  where*  we  cou 
Every  band, 


26    BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN 

And  the  speaker's  stand. 

And  Bryan  took  the  platform. 

And  he  was  introduced. 

And  he  lifted  his  hand 

And  cast  a  new  spell. 

Progressive  silence  fell 

In  Springfield, 

In  Illinois, 

Around  the  world. 

Then  we  heard  these  glacial  boulders  across  the  prairie 
rolled: 

"  The  people  have  a  right  to  make  their  own  mis 
takes.  .  .  . 

You  shall  not  crucify  mankmd 

Upon  a  cross  of  gold." 


And  everybody  heard  him  — * 

In  the  streets  and  State  House  yard. 

And  everybody  heard  him 

In  Springfield, 

In  Illinois, 

Around  and  around  and  around  the  world, 

That  danced  upon  its  axis 

And  like  a  darling  broncho  whirled. 


BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN    27 

IV 

July,  August,  suspense. 

Wall  Street  lost  to  sense. 

August,  September,  October, 

More  suspense, 

And  the  whole  East  down  like  a  wind-smashed  fence. 


Then  Hanna  to  the  rescue, 

Hanna  of  Ohio, 

Rallying  the  roller-tops, 

Rallying  the  bucket-shops, 

Threatening  drouth  and  death, 

Promising  manna, 

Rallying  the  trusts  against  the  bawling  flannelmouth; 

Invading  misers'  cellars, 

Tin-cans,  socks, 

Melting  down  the  rocks, 

Pouring  out  the  long  green  to  a  million  workers, 

Spondulix   by    the   mountain-load,    to    stop   each   new 

tornado, 

And  beat  the  cheapskate,  blatherskite, 
Populistic,  anarchistic, 
Deacon  —  desperado. 


28    BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN 

V 

Election  night  at  midnight: 

Boy  Bryan's  defeat. 

Defeat  of  western  silver. 

Defeat  of  the  wheat. 

Victory  of  letterfiles 

And  plutocrats  in  miles 

With  dollar  signs  upon  their  coats, 

Diamond  watchchains  on  their  vests 

And  spats  on  their  feet. 

Victory  of  custodians, 

Plymouth  Rock, 

And  all  that  inbred  landlord  stock. 

Victory  of  the  neat. 

Defeat  of  the  aspen  groves  of  Colorado  valleys, 

The  blue  bells  of  the  Rockies, 

And  blue  bonnets  of  old  Texas, 

By  the  Pittsburg  alleys. 

Defeat  of  alfalfa  and  the  Mariposa  lily. 

Defeat  of  the  Pacific  and  the  long  Mississippi. 

Defeat  of  the  young  by  the  old  and  silly. 

Defeat  of  tornadoes  by  the  poison  vats  supreme. 

Defeat  of  my  boyhood,  defeat  of  my  dream. 


BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN    29 

VI 

Where  is  McKinley,  that  respectable  McKinley, 

The  man  without  an  angle  or  a  tangle, 

Who  soothed  down  the  city  man  and  soothed  down  the 

farmer, 

The  German,  the  Irish,  the  Southerner,  the  Northerner, 
Who  climbed  every  greasy  pole,  and  slipped  through 

every  crack; 
Who  soothed  down  the  gambling  hall,  the  bar-room,  the 

church, 

The  devil  vote,  the  angel  vote,  the  neutral  vote, 
The  desperately  wicked,  and  their  victims  on  the  rack, 
The  gold  vote,  the  silver  vote,  the  brass  vote,  the  lead 

vote, 
Every  vote.  .  -.-  . 

Where  is  McKinley,  Mark  Hanna's  McKinley, 

His  slave,  his  echo,  his  suit  of  clothes? 

Gone  to  join  the  shadows,  with  the  pomps  of  that  time, 

And  the  flame  of  that  summer's  prairie  rose. 

Where  is  Cleveland  whom  the  Democratic  platform 
Read  from  the  party  in  a  glorious  hour  ? 
Gone  to  join  the  shadows  with  pitchfork  Tillman, 
And  sledge-hammer  Altgeld  who  wrecked  his  power. 


30    BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN,  BRYAN 

Where  is  Hanna,  bull  dog  Hanna, 
Low  browed  Hanna,  who  said:     "  Stand  pat  "? 
Gone  to  his  place  with  old  Pierpont  Morgan. 
Gone  somewhere  .  .  .  with  lean  rat  Platt. 

Where  is  Roosevelt,  the  young  dude  cowboy, 
Who  hated  Bryan,  then  'aped  his  way  ? 
Gone  to  join  the  shadows  with  mighty  Cromwell 
And  tall  King  Saul,  till  the  Judgment  day. 

Where  is  Altgeld,  brave  as  the  truth, 
Whose  name  the  few  still  say  with  tears  ? 
Gone  to  join  the  ironies  with  Old  John  Brown, 
Whose  fame  rings  loud  for  a  thousand  years. 

Where  is  that  boy,  that  Heaven-born  Bryan, 
That  Homer  Bryan,  who  sang  from  the  West? 
Gone  to  join  the  shadows  with  Altgeld  the  Eagle, 
Where  the  kings  and  the  slaves  and  the  troubadours 

rest. 
Written  at  the  Guanella  Ranch,  Empire,  Colorado,  August,  1919. 


RAMESES  II  31 


RAMESES  H 

Would  that  the  brave  Rameses,  King  of  Time 
Were  throned  in  your  souls,  to  raise  for  you 
Vast  immemorial  dreams  dark  Egypt  knew, 
Filling  these  barren  days  with  Mystery, 
With  Life  and  Death,  and  Immortality, 
The  Devouring  Ages,  the  all-consuming  Sun: 
God  keep  us  brooding  on  eternal  things, 
God  make  us  wizard-kings. 


32  MOSES 


MOSES 

Yet  let  us  raise  that  Egypt-nurtured  prince, 
Son  of  a  Hebrew,  with  the  dauntless  scorn 
And  hate  for  bleating  gods  Egyptian-born, 
Showing  with  signs  to  stubborn  Mizraim 
"  God  is  one  God,  the  God  of  Abraham," 
He  who  in  the  beginning  made  the  Sun. 
God  send  us  Moses  from  his  hidden  grave, 
'God  make  us  meek  and  brave. 


A  RHYME  FOR  ALL  ZIONISTS  33 


A  RHYME  FOR  ALL  ZIONISTS 

The  Eyes  of  Queen  Esther,  and  How  they  Conquered 
King  Ahasuerus 

"  Esther  had  not  showed  her  people  nor  her  kindred." 


He  harried  lions  up  the  peaks. 

In  blood  and  moss  and  snow  they  died. 

He  wore  a  cloak  of  lions'  manes 

To  satisfy  his  curious  pride. 

Men  saw  it,  trimmed  with  emerald  bands, 

Flash  on  the  crested  battle-tide. 


Where  Bagdad  stands,  he  hunted  kings, 
Burned  them  alive,  his  soul  to  cool. 
Yet  in  his  veins  god  Ormadz  wrought 
To  make  a  just  man  of  a  fool. 
He  spoke  the  rigid  truth,  and  rode, 
And  drew  the  bow,  by  Persian  rule. 


A  RHYME  FOR  ALL  ZIONISTS 

II 

Ahasuerus  in  his  prime 
Was  gracious  'and  voluptuous. 
He  saw  a  pale  face  turn  to  him, 
A  gleam  of  Heaven's  righteousness : 
A  girl  with  hair  of  David's  gold 
And  Rachel's  face  of  loveliness. 

He  dropped  his  sword,  he  bowed  his  head. 

She  led  his  steps  to  courtesy. 

He  took  her  for  his  white  north  star : 

A  wedding  of  true  majesty. 

Oh,  what  a  war  for  gentleness 

Was  in  her  bridal  fantasy ! 

Why  did  he  faU  by  candlelight 
And  press  his  bull-heart  to  her  feet? 
He  found  them  as  the  mountain-snow 
Where  lions  died.     Her  hands  were  sweet 
As  ice  upon  a  blood-burnt  mouth, 
As  mead  to  reapers  in  the  wheat. 

The  little  nation  in  her  soul 
Bloomed  in  her  girl's  prophetic  face. 


A  RHYME  FOR  ALL  ZIONISTS  35 

She  named  it  not,  and  yet  he  felt 
One  challenge :  her  eternal  race. 
This  was  the  mystery  of  her  step, 
Her  trembling  body's  sacred  grace. 

He  stood,  a  priest,  a  Nazarite, 

A  rabbi  reading  by  a  tomb. 

The  hardy  raider  saw  and  feared 

Her  White  knees  in  the  palace  gloom, 

Her  pouting  breasts  and  locks  well  combed 

Within  the  humming,  reeling  room. 

Her  name  was  Meditation  there : 
Fair  opposite  of  bullock's  brawn. 
I  sing  her  eyes  that  conquered  him. 
He  bent  before  his  little  fawn, 
Her  dewy  fern,  her  bitter  weed, 
Her  secret  forest's  floor  and  lawn. 

He  gave  her  Shushan  *  from  the  walls. 
She  saw  it  not,  and  turned  not  back. 
Her  eyes  kept  hunting  through  his  soul 
As  one  may  <seek  through  battle  black 

Shushan  —  the  royal  city. 


36  A  RHYME  FOR  ALL  ZIONISTS 

For  one  dear  banner  held  on  high, 
For  one  bright  bugle  in  the  rack. 

The  scorn  that  loves  the  sexless  stars: 
Traditions  passionless  and  bright : 
The  ten  commands  (to  him  unknown), 
The  pillar  of  the  fire  by  night:  — 
Flashed  from  her  alabaster  crown 
The  while  they  kissed  by  candlelight. 

The  rarest  psalms  of  David  came 

From  her  dropped  veil  (odd  dreams  to  him). 

It  prophesied,  he  knew  not  how, 

Against  his  endless  armies  grim. 

He  saw  his  Shushan  in  the  dust  — 

Far  in  'the  ages  growing  dim. 

Then  came  a  glance  of  steely  blue, 
Flash  of  her  body's  silver  sword. 
Her  eyes  of  law  and  temple  prayer 
Broke  him  who  spoiled  the  temple  hoard. 
The  thief  who  fouled  all  little  lands 
Went  mad  before  her,  and  adored. 

The  girl  was  Eve  in  Paradise, 
Yet  Judith,  till  her  war  was  won. 


A  RHYME  FOR  ALL  ZIONISTS  37 

All  of  the  future  -tyrants  fell 
In  this  one  king,  ere  night  was  done, 
And  Israel,  captive  then  as  now 
Ruled  with  tomorrow's  rising  sun. 

And  in  the  logic  of  the  skies 

He  who  keeps  Israel  in  his  hand, 

The  God  whose  hope  for  joy  on  earth 

The  Gentile  yet  shall  understand, 

Through  powers  like  Esther's  steadfast  eyes 

Shall  free  each  little  tribe  and  land. 

These  verses  were  written  for  the  Phi  Beta  Kappa  Society  of 
Philadelphia  and  read  at  their  meeting,  December  8,  1917. 


38  A  MEDITATION  ON  THE  SUN 


A  MEDITATION  ON  THE  SUN 

I 

Come,  let  us  think  upon  £he  great  that  came 
Our  spiritual  solar-kings,  whose  fame 
Is  quenchless  in  the  lands  of  mental  light, 
High  planets  in  the  vast  historic  game: 

Youths  from  the  sky,  they  came  in  splendid  flight. 
We  hold  to  them  as  to  our  day  and  night, 
And  by  them  measure  out  our  moments  here, 
Our  greatness,  littleness,  and  wrong  and  right. 

For  like  the  sun,  we  carry  yesteryears 
Within  our  wallets :  all  the  ancient  fears 
And  scorns  and  triumphs  woven  in  our  cloaks, 
Our  tall  plumes  bought  with  some  lost  race's  tears. 

Oh  Sun,  I  wish  that  all  the  nations  bright 

You  ever  looked  upon  were  in  my  sight, 

That  I  had  stood  up  in  your  royal  car 

With  your  eye-rays  to  search  out  field  and  height: 


A  MEDITATION  ON  THE  SUN  39 

To  see  young  David,  leading  forth  his  sheep, 
The  Christ  Child  on  the  Hill  of  Nazareth  sleep, 
To  watch  proud  Dante  climb  the  stranger's  stairs, 
To  see  the  ocean  round  Columbus  leap. 

And  beauty  absolute  man's  heart  has  known 

In  those  old  hills  where  the  Greek  blood  was  sown, 

They  named  you  young  Apollo  in  that  day 

And  served  you  well,  and  loved  your  chariot-throne. 

Would  I  had  looked  on  Venice  in  her  prime. 
And  long  had  watched  the  prayerful  Gothic  time 
When  Notre  Dame  arose,  a  mystery  there 
In  wicked  good  old  Paris  and  its  grime ! 

II 

Oh  light,  light,  light !     Oh  Sun  your  light  is  good. 
You  stir  the  sap  of  garden,  field  and  wood, 
Of  men  and  ages.     And  your  deeds  are  fair, 
And  by  this  light,  is  God's  love  understood. 

So  let  us  think  upon  Creation's  days 
And  Great  Jehovah  Moses  came  to  praise :  — 
The  God  the  Hebrews  said  excelled  the  sun, 
To  whom  all  psalms  are  due,  who  made  the  ways1 


40  A  MEDITATION  ON  THE  SUN 

The  sun  shall  follow  till  he  burns  no  more 
Till  he  is  cold  and  clinkered  to  the  core. 
Praise  God,  and  not  the  sun  too  much,  my  soul, 
The  God  behind  the  sun  we  must  adore. 


Ill 

Oh  Sun,  that  yet  will  my  spring  thoughts  astound, 
How  often  this  lone  mendicant  you  found 
Stripped  in  your  presence  of  all  earthly  things. 
A  happy  dervish  whirling  round  and  round. 

You  were  his  tree  of  incense  and  his  feast, 

You  were  his  wagon  and  his  harnessed  beast, 

His  singing  brother,  yet  his  tyrant  hard, 

With  whip  and  spur  and  shout  that  never  ceased. 

He  thought  of  Freedom  that  rides  round  with  you 
Healing  the  nations  with  a  crystal  dew, 
The  comrade  of  your  car,  with  Science  there, 
Making  the  ways  of  men  forever  new. 

Would  we  might  lift  a  mighty  battle-cry. 
Nations  and  mendicants,  and  shake  your  sky : 


A  MEDITATION  ON  THE  SUN  41 

Would  that  you  caught  us  singing  as  one  man 
That  song  I  sang  when  begging  days  began 
Hearing  it  in  every  beam  on  high : 
"  Man's  spirit-darkness  shall  forever  die." 


DANTE 


DANTE 

Would  we  were  lean  and  grim,  and  shaken  with  hate 
Like  Dante,  fugitive,  o'er-wrought  with  cares, 
And  climbing  bitterly  the  stranger's  stairs, 
Yet  Love,  Love,  Love,  divining:  finding  still 
Beyond  dark  Hell  the  penitential  hill, 
And  blessed  Beatrice  beyond  the  grave. 
Jehovah  lead  us  through  the  wilderness : 
God  make  our  wandering  brave. 


THE  COMET  OF  PROPHECY  43 


THE  COMET  OF  PROPHECY 

I  had  hold  of  the  comet's  mane 
A-clinging  like  grim  death. 
I  passed  the  dearest  star  of  all, 
The  one  with  violet  breath : 
The  blue-gold-'silver  Venus  star, 
And  almo'st  lost  my  hold.  .  .  . 
Again  I  ride  the  chaos-tide, 
Again  the  winds  are  cold. 

I  look  ahead,  I  look  above, 

I  look  on  either  hand. 

I  cannot  sight  the  fields  I  seek, 

The  holy  No-Man's-Land. 

And  yet  my  heart  is  full  of  faith. 

My  comet  splits  the  gloom, 

His  red  mane  slaps  across  my  face, 

His  eyes  like  bonfires  loom. 

My  comet  smells  the  far-off  grass 
Of  valleys  richly  green. 


44  THE  COMET  OF  PROPHECY 

My  comet  sights  strange  continents 

My  sad  eyes  have  not  seen, 

We  gallop  through  the  whirling  mist. 

My  good  steed  cannot  fail. 

And  we  shall  reach  that  flowery  shore, 

And  wisdom's  mountain  scale. 

And  I  shall  find  my  wizard  cloak 

Beneath  that  alien  sky 

And  touching  black  soil  to  my  lips 

Begin  to  prophesy. 

While  chaos  sleet  and  chaos4  rain 

Beat  on  an  Indian  Drum 

There  in  tomorrow's  moon  I  stand 

And  speak  the  a/ge  to  come. 


SHANTUNG  45 


"  Confucius  appeared,  according  to  Mencius,  one  of 
his  most  distinguished  followers,  at  a  crisis  in  the  na 
tion's  history.  *  The  world,'  he  says,  '  had  fallen  into 
decay,  and  right  principles  had  disappeared.  Perverse 
discourses  and  oppressive  deeds  were  waxen  rife.  Min 
isters  murdered  their  rulers,  and  sons  their  fathers. 
Confucius  was  frightened  by  what!  he  saw, —  and  he 
undertook  the  work  of  reformation.5 

"  He  was  a  native  of  the  state  of  Lu,  a  part  of  the 
modern  Shantung.  .  .  .  Lu  had  a  great  name  among 
the  other  states  of  Chow  .  .  .  etc."  Rev.  James 
Legge,  Professor  of  Chinese,  University  of  Oxford. 


46  SHANTUNG 


SHANTUNG 
OR 

THE  EMPIRE  OF  CHINA  IS  CRUMBLING 
DOWN 

Dedicated  to  William  Rose  Benet 

I 

Now  let  the  generations  pass  — 

Like  sand  through  Heaven's  blue  hour-glass. 

In  old  Shantung, 

By  the  capital  where  poetry  began, 

Near  the  only  printing  presses  known  to  man, 

Young  Confucius  walks  the  shore 

On  a  sorrowful  day. 

The  town,  all  books,  is  tumbling  down 

Through  the  blue  bay. 

The  bookworms  writhe 

From  rusty  musty  walls. 

They  drown  themselves  like  rabbits  in  the  sea. 


SHANTUNG  47 

Venomous  foreigners  Tiarry  mandarins 
With  pitchfork,  blunderbuss  and  snickersnee. 

In  tfte  book-slums  there  is  thunder ; 
Gunpowder,  that  sad  wonder, 
Intoxicates  the  knights  and  beggar-men. 
The  old  grotesques  of  war  begin  again : 
Rebels,  devils,  fairies,  are  set  free. 

So  .  .  . 

Confucius  hears  a  carol  and  a  hum : 

A  picture  sea-child  whirs  from  off  his  fan 

In  one  quick  breath  of  peach-bloom  fantasy, 

Then,  in  an  instant  bows  the  reverent  knee  — 

A  full-grown  sweetheart,  chanting  his  renown. 

And  then  she  darts  into  the  Yellow  Sea, 

Calling,  calling: 

"  Sage  with  holy  brow, 

Say  farewell  to  China  now; 

Live  like  the  swine, 

Leave  off  your  scholar-gown! 

This  city  of  books  is  falling,  falling, 

The  Empire  of  China  is  crumbling  down." 


48  SHANTUNG 

II 

Confucius,  Confucius,  how  great  was  Confucius  — 
The  sage  of  Shantung,  and  the  master  of  Mencius? 

Alexander  fights  the  East. 

Just  as  the  Indus  turns  him  back 

He  hears  of  tempting  lands  beyond, 

With  sword-swept  cities  on  the  rack 

With  crowns  outshining  India's  crown: 

The  Empire  of  China,  crumbling  down. 

Later  the  Roman  sibyls  say : 

"  Egypt,  Persia  and  Macedon, 

Tyre  and  Carthage,  passed  away ; 

And  the  Empire  of  China  is  crumbling  down. 

Rome  will  never  crumble  down." 

m 

See  how  the  generations  pass  — 

Like  sand  through  Heaven's  blue  hour-glass. 

Arthur  waits  on  the  British  shore 
One  thankful  day, 
Eor  Galahad  sails  back  at  last 
To  Camelot  Bay. 


SHANTUNG  49 

The  pure  knight  lands  and  tells  'the  tale : 

"  Far  in  the  east 

A  sea-girl  led  us  to  a  king, 

The  king  to  a  feast, 

In  a  land  where  poppies  bloom  for  miles, 

Where  books  are  made  like  bricks  and  tiles. 

I  taught  that  king  to  love  your  name  — 

Brother  and  Christian  he  became. 

"  His  Town  of  Thunder-Powder  keeps 
A  giant  hound  that  never  sleeps, 
A  crocodile  that  sits  and  weeps. 

"  His  Town  of  Cheese  the  mouse  affrights 
With  fire-winged  cats  that  light  the  nights. 
They  glorify  the  land  of  rust ; 
Their  sneeze  is  music  in  the  dust. 
(And  deep  and  ancient  is  the  dust.) 

w  All  towns  have  one  same  miracle 
With  the  Town  of  Silk,  the  capital  — 
Vast  book-worms  in  the  book-built  walls. 
Their  creeping  shakes  the  silver  halls ; 
They  look  like  cables,  and  they  seem 
Like  writhing  roots  on  trees  of  dream. 


50  SHANTUNG 

Their  sticky  cobwebs  cross  the  street, 
Catching  scholars  by  the  feet, 
Who  own  the  tribes,  yet  rule  them  not, 
Bitten  by  book-worms  till  they  rot. 
Beggars  and  clowns  rebel  in  might 
Bitten  by  book-worms  till  they  fight." 

Arthur  calls  to  his  knights  in  rows : 

"  I  will  go  if  Merlin  goes ; 

These  rebels  must  be  flayed  and  sliced  — 

Let  us  cut  their  throats  for  Christ." 

But  Merlin  whispers  in  his  beard : 

"  China  has  witches  to  be  feared." 

Arthur  stares  at  the  sea-foam's  rim 

Amazed.     The  fan-girl  beckons  him !  — ; 

That  slender  and  peculiar  child 

Mongolian  and  brown  and  wild. 

His  eyes  grow  wide,  his  senses  drown. 

She  laughs  in  her  wing,  like  the  sleeve  of  a  gown. 

She  lifts  a  key  of  crimson  stone : 

"  The  Great  Gunpowder-town  you  own." 

She  lifts  a  key  with  chains  and  rings : 

"  I  give  the  town  where  cats  have  wings." 

She  lifts  a  key  as  white  as  milk : 


SHANTUNG  51 

"  This  unlocks  the  Town  of  Silk  "— 
Throws  forty  keys  at  Arthur's  feet : 
"  These  unlock  the  land  complete." 

Then,  frightened  by  suspicious  knights, 

And  Merlin's  eyes  like  altar-lights, 

And  the  Christian  towers  of  Arthur's  town, 

She  spreads  blue  fins  —  she  whirs  away ; 

Fleeing  far  across  the  bay, 

Wailing  through  the  gorgeous  day : 

"  My  sick  king  begs 

That  you  save  his  crown 

And  his  learned  chiefs  from  the  worm  and  clown  — 

The  Empire  of  China  is  crumbling  down." 

IV 

Always  the  generations  pass, 

Like  sand  through  Heaven's  blue  hour-glass! 

The  time  the  King  of  Rome  is  born  — 
Napoleon's  son,  that  eaglet  thing  — 
Bonaparte  finds  beside  his  throne 
One  evening,  laughing  in  her  wing, 
The  Chinese  sea-ohild ;  and  she  cries, 
Breaking  his  heart  with  emerald  eyes 


%  SHANTUNG 

And  fairy-bred  unearthly  grace : 

"  Master,  take  your  destined  place  — 

Across  white  foam  and  water  blue 

The  streets  of  China  call  to  you : 

The  Empire  of  China  is  crumbling  down." 

Then  he  bends  to  kiss  her  mouth, 

And  gets  but  incense,  dust  and  drouth. 

Custodians,  custodians  I 
Mongols  and  Manchurians! 
Christians,  wolves,  Mohammedans! 

In  hard  Berlin  they  cried :     "  0  King, 
China's  way  is  a  shameful  thing ! " 

In  Tokio  they  cry :     "  0  King, 
China's  way  is  a  shameful  thing ! " 

And  thus  our  song  might  call  the  roll 
Of  every  land  from  pole  to  pole, 
And  every  rumor  known  to  time 
Of  China  doddering  —  or  sublime. 

V 

Slowly  the  generations  pass  - — 

Like  sand  through  Heaverfs  blue  hour-glass. 


SHANTUNG  53 

So  let  us  find  tomorrow  now : 

Our  towns  are  gone ; 

Our  books  have  passed ;  ten  thousand  years 

Have  thundered  on. 

The  Sphinx  looks  far  across  the  world 

In  fury  black : 

She  sees  all  western  nations  spent 

Or  on  the  rack. 

Eastward  she  sees  one  land  she  knew 

When  from  the  stone 

Priests  of  the  sunrise  carved  her  out 

And  left  her  lone. 

She  sees  the  shore  Confucius  walked 

On  his  sorrowful  day : 

Impudent  foreigners  rioting, 

In  the  ancient  way ; 

Officials,  futile  as  of  old, 

Have  gowns  more  bright ; 

Bookworms  are  fiercer  than  of  old, 

Their  skins  more  white ; 

Dust  is  deeper  than  of  old, 

More  bats  are  flying ; 

More  songs  are  written  than  of  old  — 

More  songs  are  dying. 


54  SHANTUNG 

Where  Galahad  found  forty  towns 

Now  fade  and  glare 

Ten  thousand  towns  with  book-tiled  roof 

And  garden-stair, 

Where  beggars'  babies  come  like  showers 

Of  classic  words : 

They  rule  the  world  —  immortal  brooks 

And  magic  birds. 

The  lion  Sphinx  roars  at  the  sun : 
"  I  hate  this  nursing  you  have  done ! 
The  meek  inherit  the  earth  too  long  — 
When  will  the  world  belong  to  the  strong?  " 
She  soars ;  she  claws  his  patient  face  — 
The  girl-moon  screams  at  the  disgrace. 
The  sun's  blood  fills  the  western  sky ; 
He  hurries  not,  and  will  not  die. 

The  baffled  Sphinx,  ion  granite  wings, 
Turns  now  to  where  young  China  sings. 
One  thousand  of  ten  thousand  towns 
Go  down  before  her  silent  wrath ; 
Yet  even  lion-gods  may  faint 
And  die  upon  their  brilliant  path. 
She  sees  the  Chinese  children  romp 


SHANTUNG  55 

i 
In  dust  that  she  must  breathe  and  eat. 

Her  tongue  is  reddened  by  its  lye ; 

She  craves  its  grit,  ifys  cold  and  heat. 

The  Dust  of  Ages  holds  a  glint 

Of  fire  from  the  foundation-stones, 

Of  spangles  from  the  sun's  bright  face, 

Of  sapphires  from  earth's  marrow-bones. 

Mad-drunk  with  it,  she  ends  her  day  — 

'Slips  when  a  high  sea-wall  gives  way, 

Drowns  in  the  cold  Confucian  sea 

Where  the  whirring  fan-girl  first  flew  free. 

In  the  light  of  the  maxims  of  Chesterfield,  Mencius, 

Wilson,  Roosevelt,  Tolstoy,  Trotsky, 

Franklin  or  Nietzsche,  how  great  was  Confucius? 

"  Laughing  Asia  "  brown  and  wild, 

That  lyric  and  immortal  child, 

His  fan's  gay  daughter,  crowned  with  sand, 

Between  the  water  and  the  land 

Now  cries  on  high  in  irony, 

With  a  voice  of  night-wind  alchemy : 

"  O  cat,  O  sphinx, 

O  stony-face, 

The  joke  is  on  Egyptian  pride, 


56  SHANTUNG 

The  joke  is  on  the  human  race: 

*  The  meek  inherit  the  earth  too  long  — 

When  will  the  world  belong  to  the  strong?  * 

I  am  born  from  off  the  holy  fan 

Of  the  world's  most  patient  gentleman. 

So  answer  me, 

O  courteous  sea ! 

O  deathless  sea !  " 

And  thus  will  the  answering  Ocean  call : 

"  China  will  fall, 

The  Empire  of  China  will  crumble  down, 

When  the  Alps  and  the  Andes  crumble  down ; 

When  the  sun  and  the  moon  have  crumbled  down, 

The  Empire  of  China  will  crumble  down, 

Crumble  down." 


LUCIFER  57 


In  the  following  narrative,  Lucifer  is  not  Satan,  King 
of  Evil,  who  in  the  beginning  led  the  rebels  from 
Heaven,  establishing  the  underworld. 

Lucifer  is  here  taken  as  a  character  appearing  much 
later,  the  first  singing  creature  weary  of  established 
ways  in  music,  moved  with  the  lust  of  wandering.  He 
finds  the  open  road  between  the  stars  too  lonely.  He 
wanders  to  the  kingdom  of  Satan,  there  to  sing  a  song 
that  so  moves  demons  and  angels  that  he  is,  at  its  cli 
max,  momentary  emperor  of  Hell  and  Heaven,  and  the 
flame  kindled  of  the  tears  of  the  demons  devastates  the 
golden  streets. 

Therefore  it  is  best  for  the  established  order  of  things 
that  this  wanderer  shall  be  cursed  with  eternal  silence 
and  death.  But  since  then  there  has  been  music  in 
every  temptation,  in  every  demon  voice. 

Along  with  a  set  of  verses  called  The  Heroes  of  Time, 
and  another  The  Tree  of  Laughing  Bells,  I  exchanged 
The  Last  Song  of  Lucifer  for  a  night's  lodging  in  New 
Jersey,  Pennsylvania  and  Ohio,  as  narrated  in  A  Handy 
Guide  for  Beggars. 


58  LUCIFER 


The  fourteenth  chapter  of  Isaiah  contains  these 
words  on  Lucifer: 

"  Thy  pomp  is  brought  down  to  the  grave,  and  the 
noise  of  thy  viols:  the  worm  is  spread  under  thee  and 
the  worms  cover  thee. 

"  How  art  thou  fallen  from  Heaven,  O  Lucifer,  son  of 
the  morning.  How  art  thou  cut  down  to  the  ground, 
which  didst  weaken  the  nations. 

"  For  thou  hast  said  in  thine  heart,  I  will  ascend  into 
Heaven,  I  will  exalt  my  throne  above  the  stars  of 
God.  .  .  . 

"  All  the  kings  of  the  nations,  even  all  of  them,  lie  in 
glory,  every  one  in  his  own  house. 

"  But  thou  art  cast  out  of  thy  grave  like  an  abomin 
able  branch,  and  as  the  raiment  of  those  that  are  slain, 
thrust  through  with  a  sword,  that  go  down  to  the  stones 
of  the  pit ;  as  a  carcass  trodden  under  f eet* 

"  Thou  shalt  not  be  joined  to  them  in  burial,  because 
thou  hast  destroyed  thy  land." 


THE  LAST  SONG  OF  LUCIFER 


59 


THE  LAST  SONG  OF  LUCIFER 

To  Be  Read  Like  a  Meditation 
When  Lucifer  was  undefiled, 
When  Lucifer  was  young, 
When  only  angel-music 
Fell  from  his  glorious  tongue, 
Dreaming  in  his  innocence 
Beneath  God's  golden  trees 
By  genius  pure  his  fancy  fell  — 
By  sweet  divine  disease  — 
To  a  wilderness  of  sorrows  dim 
Beneath  the  ether  seas. 
That  father  of  radiant  harmony, 
Of  music  transcendently  bright  — 
Truest  to  art  since  heaven  began, 
Wrapped  in  royal,  melodious  light  — 
That    beautiful    light-bearer,    lofty    and 

loyal 
Dreamed   bitter   dreams    of   enigma    and 

night. 

But  soon  the  singer  woke  and  stood 
And  tuned  his  harp  to  sing  anew 


Lucifer 
dreams  of  his 
fate  and  then 
forgets  the 
dream. 


60  THE  LAST  SONG  OF  LUCIFER 

And    scorned    the    dreams    (as    well    he 

should) 

For  only  to  the  evil  crew 
Are  dreams  of  dread  and  evil  true, 
Remembered  well,  or  understood. 


But  when  a  million  years  were  done 
And  a  million  million  years  beside, 
He  broke  his  harp-strings  one  by  one; 
He  sighed,  aweary  of  rich  things, 
He  spread  his  pallid,  heavy  wings 
And  flew  to  find  the  deathless  stains, 
The  wounds  that  come  with  wanderings. 


The  dream  is 
fulfilled. 


He  chose  the  solemn  paths  of  Hell, 

He  sang  for  that  dumb  land  too  well, 

Defying  their  disdain 

Till  he  was  cursed  and  slain. 

Ah  —  he  shall  never  dream  again  — 

Mourn,  for  he  shall  not  dream  again  — 

But  the  demons  dream  in  pain, 

Of  wandering  in  the  night 

And  singing  in  the  night, 

Singing  till  they  reign. 


He  will  never 
dream  again, 
but  the  de 
mons  dream, 
of  wandering 
and  singing, 
and   doing   all 
things  just  as 
he   did   in  his 
day. 


THE  LAST  SONG  OF  LUCIFER 


61 


Oh  hallowed  are  the  demons, 

A-dreaming  songs  again, 

And  holy  to  my  heart!  the  ancient  music- 
art, 

That  echo  of  a  memory  in  demon-haunted 
men, 

That  hope  of  music,  sweet  hope,  vain, 

That  sets  the  world  a-seeking  — 

A  passion  pure,  a  subtle  pain 

Too  dear  for  song  or  speaking. 

Oh,  who  would  not  with  the  demons  be, 

For  the  fullness  of  their  memory 

Of  that  day  spring  song, 

Of  that  holy  thing 

That  Lucifer  alone  could  sing, 

That  Hell  and  Earth  so  hopelessly 

And  gloriously  are  seeking! 


Oh,  Lucifer,  great  Lucifer, 
Oh,  fallen,  ancient  Lucifer, 
Master,  lost,  of  the  angel  choir  — 
Silent,  suffering  Lucifer : 
Once  your  alchemies  of  Hell 


Muisic  is  holy, 
even  in  the  in 
fernal  world. 


If  Lucifer's 
song  could  be 
completely  re 
membered, 
one  would  be 
willing  to  pay 
the  great 
price. 


NOW  FOLLOWS 
WHAT  EVERY 
DEMON"  SAYS  IN 
HIS   HEART,  RE 
MEMBERING 
THAT  TIME 

How  the  sing 
er  made  his 
lyre. 


62  THE  LAST  SONG  OF  LUCIFER 

Wrought  your  chains  to  a  magic  lyre 
All  strung  with  threads  of  purple  fire, 
Till  the  hell-hounds  moaned  from  your  bit 
ter  spell   — 

The  sweetest  song  since  the  demons  fell  — 
Haunting  song  of  the  heart's  desire. 


Oh,  Lucifer,  great  Lucifer,  How  the  son9 

v          ,  .  began. 

You  who  have  sung  in  vain, 

Ecstasy  of  sweet  regret, 

Ecstasy  of  pain, 

Strain  that  the  angels  can  never  forget, 

Haunting  the  children  of  punishment  yet, 

Bowing  them,  bringing  their  tears  in  the 

darkness ; 
Oh,  the  night-caves  of  Chaos  are  breathing 

it  yet! 

The  last  that  your  bosom  may  ever  deliver, 
Oh,  musical  master  of  aeons  and  aeons.  .  .  . 
Nor  devils  nor  dragons  may  ever  forget, 
Though  the  walls   of  our  prison  should 

crumble  and  shiver, 
And  the  death-dews  of  Chaos  our  armor 

should  wet, 


THE  LAST  SONG  OF  LUCIFER  63 

For  the  song  'of  the  infamous  Lucifer 
Was  an  anthem  of  glorious  scorning! 
And  courage,  and  horrible  pain  — 
Was  the  song  of  a  Son  of  the  Morning, 
A  song  that  was  sung  in  vain. 


Oh  singing  was  only  in  Heaven 

Ere  Lucifer's  melody  came, 

But  when  Lucifer's  harp-strings  grew  loud 

in  their  sighing, 

When  he  called  up  the  dragons  by  name  — • 
The  song  was  the  sorrow  of  sorrows, 
The  song  was  the  Hope  of  Despair, 
Or  the  smile  of  a  warrior  falling  — 
A  prayer  and  a  curse  and  a  prayer  — 
Or  a  soul  going  down  through  the  shadows 

and  calling, 

Or  the  laughter  of  Night  in  his  lair ; 
The  song  was  the  fear  of  ten  thousand  to 
morrows  — 

On  the  racks  iof  grief  and  of  pain  — 
The  herald  of  silences,  dreadful,  unending, 
When  the  last  little  echo  should  listen  in 
vain.  .  . 


6*  THE  LAST  SONG  OF  LUCIFER 

It  was  memory,  memory,  How  the  S0n9 

made  the  de- 

Visions  of  glory, —  mons  dream 

they  were  still 
Memory,  memory,  ftghting  for 

Visions  of  fight.  Satan' 

The  pride  of  the  onset, 
The  banners  that  fluttered, 

The  wails  of  the  battle-pierced  angels  of 
light. 

Song  of  the  times  of  the  Nether  Empire 
The  age  when  our  desperate  band 
Heaped  our  redoubts  with  the  horrible  fire 
On  the  fringes  of  Holier  Land  — 
Conquering  always,  conquering  never, 
Building  a  throne  of  sand  — 
When   Satan    still   wielded   that   glorious 

scepter  — 
The  sword  of  his  glorious  hand. 

Then  rang  the  martial  music 

Sung  by  the  hosts  of  God 

In  the  first  of  the  shameful  years  of  fear 

When  we  bit  the  purple  sod : 

He  sang  that  shameful  battle-story  — 

He  twanged  each  threaded  torture-flame; 

Wherever  his  leprous  fingers  came 


THE  LAST  SONG  OF  LUCIFER  65 

They  drew  from  the  strings  a  groan  of 
glory: 

Then  we  dreamed  at  last,  Ho™  the  song 

enchanted 

Then  we  lost  the  past,  them  till  they 

were  in  fancy 

We   dreamed   we   were   angels   in   battle-   ^  goo^  war_ 

array:  riors  °f  God> 

*  '  and  they 

We  tore  our  hearts  with  God's  battle-yell  shouted  their 

enemy's  bat- 
And  the  sound  crashed  up  from  the  smoky   tie-cry. 

fen 

And  the  battle  sweat  stood  forth 
On  the  awful  brows  of  our  fighting  men : 
And  the  magical  singer,  grim  and  wild 
Swept  his  harp  again,  and  smiled, 
And  the  harp-strings  lifted  our  cries  that 

day 
Till   the   thundering   charge   reached   the 

City  on  High  — 
God's  charge,  that  he  thought 
Had  passed  for  aye, 
When  our  last  fond  hope  went  down  to  die. 


Oh  throbbing,  sweet,  enthralling  spell ! 
Madly,  madly,  oh  my  heart  — 


66 


THE  LAST  SONG  OF  LUCIFER 


Heart  of  anguish,  heart  of  Hell  — 

Beat  the  music  through  your  night  — 

Pierced  the  strain  that  the  wanderer 

Wrought  with  fingers  white; 

For  last  he  sang  —  of  the  morning  — 

The  song  of  the  Sons  of  the  Morning  — 

The  fire  of  the  star-souled  Lucifer 

Before  he  had  known  a  stain ; 

That  song  which  came  when  the  suns  were 

young 

And  the  Dayspring  knew  his  place  — 
That  joy,  full  born,  that  unknown  tongue, 
That  shouting  chant  of  the  Sons  of  God 
When  first  they  saw  Jehovah's  face. 
And  the  Wanderer  laughed,  then  sang  it  at 

last 
Till  it  leaped  as  a  flame  to  the  forests  on 

high 
And  the  tears  of  the  demons  were  fire  in 

the  sky. 


JHow,  at  the 
climax  of  the 
song  Lucifer 
almost  re 
stored  the 
first  day  of 
creation,  when 
the  Universe 
was  happy 
and  sinless. 


How  the  tears 
of  the  dis 
tracted  de 
mons   became 
a  heavenr- 
climbing 
flame. 


And  iust  for  a  breath  he  conquered  and  How 

seem 

reigned, 
For  one  quick  pulse  of  time  he  stood ; 


seemed  to 
make  himself 
God. 


THE  LAST  SONG  OF  LUCIFER  67 

By  flame  was  crowned  where  God  had  been 
Himself  the  Word  sublime  — 
Himself  the  Most  High  Love  unstained, 
The  Great,  Good  King  of  the  Stars  and 

Years  — 

Crowned,  enthroned,  by  a  leaping  flame  — 
The  fire  of  our  love-born  tears. 

And  the  angels  bowed  down,  for  his  glory  H<™>  the  an~ 

gels  were  con- 

was  vast  —  quered  by  the 

...  •  i  sound  of  his 

Loving  their  conqueror,  weeping,  aghast  —  m/ueic 


While  we  sobbed,  for  a  moment  repenting  tfar>  and  the 

Demons  were 

the  past,  torn  with  love. 

And  the  mock-hope  came,  that  eats  and 

stings, 

The  hope  for  innocent  dawns  above, 
The  joy  of  it  beat  in  our  ears  like  wings, 
Our  iron  cheeks  seared  with  the  tears  of 

love  — 

Was  it  not  enough, 
Was  it  not  enough 
That  our  cheeks  were  seared  with  the  tears 

of  Love? 

So  we  cursed  the  harping  of  Lucifer  Demons  and 

angels  curse 
The  lyre  was  lost  from  his  leper  hands         the  singer. 


6S  THE  LAST  SONG  OF  LUCIFER 

And  the  hell-hounds  tore  his  living1  heart. 
And  the  angels  cursed  great  Lucifer 
For  his  purple  flame  consumed  their  lands 
Till  golden  ways  were  desert  sands ; 
They  hurled  him  down,  afar,  apart. 

Beneath  where  the  Gulfs  of  Silence  end,       The  Punish 
ment. 
Where  never  sighs  nor  songs  descend, 

Never  a  hell-flare  in  his  eyes 
Alone,  alone,  afar  he  lies.  .  .  . 
Fearfully  alone,  beyond  immortal  ken 
He  is  further  down  in  the  deep  of  pain 
Than  is  Hell  from  the  grief  of  men ; 
And  his  memories  of  music 
Are  rare  as  desert-rain. 

Ended  forever  the  ecstasy 

And  song  too  sweet  for  scorning  — 

The  song  that  was  still  in  vain ; 

And   the   shout   of   the   battle-charge   of 

God- 

Ended  forever  the  Song  of  the  Morning  — 
The  Song  that  was  sung  in  vain. 


SECOND  SECTION 

A  RHYMED  SCENARIO,  SOME  POEM  GAMES, 
AND  THE  LIKE 


A  DOLL'S  « ARABIAN  NIGHTS" 

A  Rhymed  Scenario  for  Mae  Marsh,  when  she  acts  in 
the  new  many-colored  films 

I  dreamed  the  play  was  real. 
I  walked  into  the  screen. 
Like  Alice  through  the  looking-glass, 
I  found  a  curious  scene. 
The  black  stones  took  on  flame. 
The  shadows  shone  with  eyes. 
The  colors  poured  and  changed 
In  a  Hell's  debauch  of  dyes, 
In  a  street  with  incense  thick, 
In  a  court  of  witch-bazars, 
With  flambeaux  by  the  stalls 
Whose  splutter  hid  the  stars. 
Camels  stalked  in  line. 
Courtezans  tripped  by 
Dressed  in  silks  and  gems, 
Copper  diadems, 
All  the  wealth  they  had. 
71 


72          A  DOLL'S  "  ARABIAN  NIGHTS  " 


Oh  quivering  lights, 
Arabian  Nights! 
Bagdad, 
Bagdad! 


This  refrain 
to  be  elabo 
rately   articu 
lated  and  the 
instrumental 
music  then 
made  to  match 


it  precisely. 
You  were  a  guarded  girl 
In  a  palanquin  of  gold. 
I  was  buying  figs : 
All  my  hands  could  hold. 
You  slipped  a  note  to  me. 
Your  eyes  made  me  your  slave. 
"  Twelve  paces  back,"  you  wrote. 
No  other  word  gave. 
The  delicate  dove  house  swayed 
Close-veiled,  a  snare  most  sweet. 
"  Joy  "  said  the  silver  bells 
On  the  palanquin-bearers'  feet. 
Then  by  a  mosque,  a  dervish 
Yelled  and  whirled  like  mad. 

Oh  quivering  lights, 
A  rabian  Nights  ! 
Bagdad, 
Bagdad! 


A  DOLL'S  "  ARABIAN  NIGHTS  "          73 

I  reached  a  dim,  still  court. 

I  saw  you  there  afar, 

Beckoning  from  the  roof, 

Veiled,  a  cloud-wrapped  star. 

And  your  black  slave  said :     "  Proud  boy, 

Do  you  dare  everything 

With  your  young  arm  and  bright  steel? 

Then  climb.     You  are  her  king." 

And  I  heard  a  hiss  of  knives 

In  the  doorway  dark  and  bad. 

Oh  quivering  lights, 
Arabian  Nights! 
Bagdad, 
Bagdad! 

The  stairway  climbed  and  climbed. 

It  spoke.     It  shouted  lies. 

I  reached  a  tar-black  room, 

A  panther's  belly  gloom, 

Filled  with  howls  and  sighs. 

I  found  the  roof.     Twelve  kings 

Rose  up  to  stab  me  there. 

But  I  sent  them  to  their  graves. 

My  singing  shook  the  air. 


74          A  DOLL'S  "  ARABIAN  NIGHTS  " 

My  scimitar  seemed  more 

Than  any  steel  could  be, 

A  whirling  wheel,  a  pack 

Of  death-hounds  guarding  me. 

And  then  you  came  like  May. 

You  bound  my  torn  breast  well* 

With  your  discarded  veil. 

And  flowery  silence  fell. 

While  Mohammed  spread  his  wings 

In  the  stars,  you  bent  me  back, 

With  a  quick  kiss  touched  my  mouth, 

And  my  heart  was  on  the  rack. 

Oh  dreadful,  deathless  love ! 

Oh  kiss  of  Islam  fire. 

And  your  flashing  hands  were  more 

Than  all  a  thief's  desire. 

I  woke  by  twelve  dead  curs 

On  bloody,  stony  ground.  3 

And  the  grey  watch  muttered  "  shame,"       ^«2/*  noted  in 

the  Arabian 
As  he  tottered  on  his  round.  Nights. 

You  had  written  on  my  sword :  — 
"  Goodby,  O  iron  arm. 
I  love  you  much  too  well 
To  do  you  further  harm. 


A  DOLL'S  "  ARABIAN  NIGHfTS  "  75 

And  as  my  pledge  and  sign 
You  are  in  crimson  clad/' 


Oh  quivering  lights, 
Arabian  Nights! 
Bagdad, 
Bagdad! 


The  rocs  scream  in  the  air. 
The  ghouls  my  pathway  clear. 
For  I  have  drunk  the  soul 
Of  the  dazzling  maid  they  fear. 
The  long  handclasp  you  gave 
Still  shakes  upon  my  hands. 
O,  daughter  of  a  Jinn 
I  plot  in  Islam  lands, 
Haunting  purple  streets, 
Hissing,  snarling,  bold, 

A  robber  never  jailed, 
A  beggar  never  cold. 
I  shall  be  sultan  yet 
In  this  old  crimson  clad. 


76          A  DOLL'S  "  ARABIAN  NIGHTS  " 

Oh  quwermg  lights, 
Arabian  Nights! 
Bagdad, 
Bagdad! 


THE  LAME  BOY  AND  THE  FAIRY   77 

THE  LAME  BOY  AND  THE  FAIRY 

To  be  Chanted  with  a  Suggestion  of  Chopm's  Berceuse 

A  Poem  Game.     See  the  Chinese  Nightingale,  pages  93 
through  97 

A  lame  boy 

Met  a  fairy 

In  a  meadow 

Where  the  bells  grow. 

And  the  fairy 
Kissed  him  gaily. 

And  the  fairy 
Gave  him  friendship, 
Gave  him  healing, 
Gave  him  wings. 

"  All  the  fashions 
I  will  give  you. 
You  will  fly,  dear, 
All  the  long  year. 


78   THE  LAME  BOY  AND  THE  FAIRY 

"  Wings  of  springtime, 
Wings  of  summer, 
Wings  of  autumn, 
Wings  of  winter ! 

"  Here  is 

A  dress  for  springtime." 
And  she  gave  him 
A  dress  of  grasses, 
Orchard  blossoms, 
Wildflowers  found  in 
Mountain  passes, 
Shoes  of  song  and 
Wings  of  rhyme, 

66  Here  is 

A  dress  for  summer." 

And  she  gave  him 

A  hat  of  sunflowers, 

A  suit  of  poppies, 

Clover,  daisies, 

All  from  wheat-sheaves 

In  harvest  time ; 

Shoes  of  song  and 

Wings  of  rhyme. 


THE  LAME  BOY  AND  THE  FAIRY   79 

"Here  is 

A  dress  for  autumn." 

And  she  gave  him 

A  suit  of  red  haw, 

Hickory,  apple, 

Elder,  paw  paw, 

Maple,  hazel, 

Elm  and  grape  leaves. 

And  blue 

And  white 

Cloaks  of  smoke, 

And  veils  of  sunlight, 

From  the  Indian  summer  prime ! 

Shoes  of  song  and 

Wings  of  rhyme. 

"  Here  is 

A  dress  for  winter." 
And  she  gave  him 
A  polar  bear  suit, 
And  he  heard  the 
Christmas  horns  toot, 
And  she  gave  him 
Green  festoons  and 
Red  balloons  and 


80    THE  LAME  BOY  AND  THE  FAIRY 

All  the  sweet  cakes 
And  the  snow  flakes 
Of  Christmas  time, 
Shoes  of  song  and 
Wings  of  rhyme. 

And  the  fairy 
Kept  him  laughing, 
Led  him  dancing, 
Kept  him  climbing 
On  the  hill  tops 
Toward  the  moon. 

"We  shall  see  silver  ships. 
We  shall  see  singing  ships, 
Valleys  of  spray  today, 
Mountains  of  foam. 
We  have  been  long  away, 
Far  from  our  wonderland. 
Here  come  the  ships  of  love 
Taking  us  home. 

"  Who  are  our  captains  bold  ? 
They  are  the  saints  of  old. 
One  is  Saint  Christopher. 


THE  LAME  BOY  AND  THE  FAIRY        81 

He  takes  your  hand. 

He  leads  the  cloudy  fleet. 

He  gives  us  bread  and  meat. 

His  is  our  ship  till 

We  reach  our  dear  land. 


"  Where  is  our  house  to  be  ? 
Far  in  the  ether  sea. 
There  where  the  North  Star 
Is  moored  in  the  deep. 
•Sleepy  old  comets  nod 
There  on  the  silver  sod. 
Sleepy  young  fairy  flowers 
Laugh  in  their  sleep. 

"  A  hundred  years 

And 

A  day, 

There  we  will  fly 

And  play 

I  spy  and  cross  tag. 

And  meet  on  the  high  way, 

And  call  to  the  game 

Little  Red  Riding  Hood, 


THE  LAME  BOY  AND  THE  FAIRY 

Goldilocks,  Santa  Glaus, 

Every  beloved 

And  heart-shaking  name." 

And  the! /lame  child 
And  the  fairy 
Journeyed  far,  far 
To  the  North  Star. 


THE  BLACKSMITH'S  SERENADE 


THE  BLACKSMITH'S  SERENADE 

A  pantomime  and  farce,  to  be  acted  by  My  Lady  on 
one  side  of  a  shutter,  while  the  singer  chants  on  the 
other,  to  an  iron  guitar. 

John  Littlehouse  the  redhead  was  a  large  ruddy  man 
Quite  proud  to  be  a  blacksmith,  and  he  loved  Polly  Ann, 

Polly  Ann. 

Straightway  to  her  window  with  his  iron  guitar  he  came 
Breathing  like   a   blacksmith  —  his   wonderful  heart's 

flame. 

Though  not  very  bashful  and  ndt  very  bold 
He  had  reached  the  plain  conclusion  his  passion  must  be 

told. 
And  so  he  sang :     "  Awake,  awake," —  this  hip-hoo-ray- 

ious  man. 
"  Do  you  like  me,  do  you  love  me,  Polly  Ann,  Polly 

Ann? 

The  rooster  on  my  coalshed  crows  at  break  of  day. 
It  makes  a  person  happy  to  hear  his  roundelay. 
The  fido  in  my  woodshed  barks  at  fall  of  night. 


84         THE  BLACKSMITH'S  SERENADE 

He  makes  one  feel  so  safe  and  snug.     He  barks  exactly 

right. 

I  swear  to  do  my  stylish  best  and  purchase  all  I  can 
Of  the  flummeries,  flunkeries  and  mummeries  of  man. 
And  I  will  carry  in  the  coal  and  the  water  from  the 

spring 

And  I  will  sweep  the  porches  if  you  will  cook  and  sing. 
No  doubt  your  Pa  sleeps  like  a  rock.     Of  course  Ma  is 

awake 

But  dares  not  say  she  hears  me,  for  gentle  custom's  sake. 
Your  sleeping  father  knows  I  am  a  decent  honest  man. 
Will  you  wake  him,  Polly  Ann, 

And  if  he  dares  deny  it  I  will  thrash  him,  lash  bash  mash 
Hash  him,  Polly  Ann. 
Hum  hum  hum,  fee  fie  fo  fum  — 
And  my  brawn  should  wed  your  beauty 
Do  you  hear  me,  Polly  Ann,  Polly  Ann?  " 

Polly  had  not  heard  of  him  before,  but  heard  him  now. 
She  blushed  behind  the  shutters  like  a  pippin  on  the 

bough. 

She  was  not  overfluttered,  she  was  not  overbold. 
She  was  glad  >a  lad  was  living  with  a  passion  to  be  told. 
But  she  spoke  up  to  her  mother :     "  Oh,  what  an  awful 

man :  — " 


THE  BLACKSMITH'S  SERENADE         85 

This  merry  merry  quite  contrary  tricky  'trixy,  Polly 
Ann,  Polly  Ann. 

The  neighbors  put  their  heads  out  of  the  windows. 

They  said:  — 
"  What  sort  of  turtle  dove  is  this  that  seems  to  wake  the 

dead?  " 
Yes,  in  their  nighties  whispered  this  question  to  the 

night. 

They  did  not  dare  to  shout  it.     It  wouldn't  be  right. 
And  so,  I  say,  they  whispered :  — "  Does  she  hear  this 

awful  man, 
Polly  Ann,  Polly  Ann?  " 

John  Littlehouse  the  redhead  sang  on  of  his  desires : 
"  Steel  makes  the  wires  of  lyres,  makes  the  frames  of 

terrible  towers 
And  circus  chariots'  tires. 
Believe  me,  dear,  a  blacksmith  man  can  feel. 
I  will  bind  you,  if  I  can  to  my  ribs  with  hoops  of  steel. 
Do  you  hear  me,  Polly  Ann,  Polly  Ann?  " 

And  then  his  tune  was  silence,  for  he  was  not  a  fool. 
He  let  his  voice  rest,  his  iron  guitar  cool. 


86         THE  BLACKSMITH'S  SERENADE 

And  thus  he  let  the  wind  sing,  the  stars  sing  and  the 

grass  sing, 
The  prankishness  of  love  sing,  the  girl's  tingling  feet 

sing, 
Her  trembling  sweet  hands  sing,  her  mirror  in  the  dark 

sing, 

Her  grace  in  the  dark  sing,  her  pillow  in  the  dark  sing, 
The  savage  in  her  blood  sing,  her  starved  little  heart 

sing, 
Silently  sing. 

"  Yes,  I  hear  you,  Mister  Man," 

To  herself  said  Polly  Ann,  Polly  Ann. 

He  shouted  one  great  loud  "  Good  night/9  and  laughed, 

And  skipped  home. 

And  every  star  was  winking  in  the  wide  wicked  dome. 

And  early  in  the  morning,  sweet  Polly  stole  away. 
And  though  the  town  went  crazy,  she  is  his  wife  today. 


THE  APPLE  BLOSSOM  SNOW  BLUES       87 


THE  APPLE  BLOSSOM  SNOW  BLUES 

blues  "  is  a  song  in  the  mood  of  Milton's  II  Pense- 
roso,  or  a  paragraph  from  Burton's  Anatomy  of 
Melancholy.  This  present  production  is  the 
chronicle  of  the  secret  soul  of  a  vaudeville  man, 
as  he  dances  m  the  limelight  with  his  haughty  lady. 
Let  the  reader  take  special  pains  to  make  his  own 
tune  for  this  production,  to  a  very  delicate  drum 
beat. 

"  Your 

Dandelion  beauty, 

Your 

Cherry-blossom  beauty, 

Your 

Apple-blossom  beauty, 

I  will  dance  as  I  can, 

O 

You  rag  time  lady, 

O 

You  jazz  dancing  lady, 


88       THE  APPLE  BLOSSOM  SNOW  BLUES 

O 

You  blues-singing  lady," 
Thinks  the  blues-singing  man. 

"  Your 

Grace  and  slightness, 

And  your  fragrant  whiteness, 

Make  me  see  the  bending 

Of  an  apple-blossom  bough. 

You 

Are  a  fairy, 

Yet  a  jump-jazz  dancer, 

And  your  heart 

Is  a  robin, 

Singing,  making  merry 

With  the  apple-flowers  now." 

See  him  kneel  and  canter 

And  smirk  and  banter, 

And  essay  her  heart 

While  the  gourd  horns  blow. 

For  he  is  her  lover 

And 

Her  dancing  partner, 

In  the  blues  he  made 

Called  "  The  Apple  Blossom  Snow." 


THE  APPLE  BLOSSOM  SNOW  BLUES        89 

She  does  her  duty 

No  more 

Than  her  duty, 

Yet  the  packed  house  cheers 

To  the  gallery  rim. 

Her  young  scorn  fires  them, 

Its  pep  inspires  them, 

They  watch  her  lover 

And  envy  him. 

He  does  not  fathom 

What  her  heart  has  in  keeping 

Till  that  last  circus  leaping 

Takes  all  by  surprise. 

Then  he  catches  her  softly, 

Saves  her  gently, 

And  a  mood  for  his  soul 

Lights  her  pansy  eyes. 

Then 

She  steps  rare  measures. 

Her  eyes  are  treasures. 

Brave  truth  shines  out 

From  her  young-witch  glance. 

From  the  velvety  shade, 


90        THE  APPLE  BLOSSOM  SNOW  BLUES 

Ah,  the  thoughts  of  the  maid. 
Relenting  glory, 
Unveiled  by  chance. 

Though  soon  thereafter 

She  hides  in  laughter, 

And  flouts  all  his  loving, 

He  will  dance  as  he  can, 

As  he  can, 

Like  a  man, 

With  his  jazz  dancing  wonder, 

With  his  pansy  blossom  wonder, 

With  his  apple  blossom  wonder, 

With  his  rag  time  lady, 

The  Grand  finale 

Ra~  of  jazz  music, 

like  the  fall  of 
Time  a  pile  of  dish- 

es  in  the 


THE  DANIEL  JAZZ  91 


THE  DANIEL  JAZZ 

Let  the  leader  tram  the  audience  to  roar  like  lions,  and 
to  join  in,  the  refrain  "  Go  chain  the  lions  down," 
before  he  begms  to  lead  them  m  this  jazz. 

Darius  the  Mede  was  a  king  and  a  wonder.   Beginning 

with  a  strain 

His  eye  was  proud,  and  his  voice  was  thun-  of  "  Dixie." 

der. 

He  kept  bad  lions  in  a  monstrous  den. 
He  fed  up  the  lions  on  Christian  men. 


Daniel  was  the  chief  hired  man  of  the  land.        « 

He  stirred  up  the  iazz  in  the  palace  band.  der'8 

Band." 
He  whitewashed  the  cellar.     He  shovelled 

in  the  coal. 

And  Daniel  kept  a-p  raying:  —  "  Lord  save  my  soul." 
Daniel  kept  a-praying  "  Lord  save  my  soul." 
Daniel  kept  a-praying  "  Lord  save  my  soul." 

Daniel  was  the  butler,  swagger  and  swell. 
He  ran  up  stairs.     He  answered  the  bell. 


92  THE  DANIEL  JAZZ 

And  Tie  would  let  in  whoever  came  a-calling :  — 

Saints  so  holy,  scamps  so  appalling. 

"  Old  man  Ahab  leaves  his  card. 

Elisha  and  the  bears  are  a-waiting  in  the  yard. 

Here  comes  Pharaoh  and  his  snakes  a-calling. 

Here  comes  Cain  and  his  wife  a-calling. 

Shadrach,  Meshach  and  Abednego  for  tea. 

Here  comes  Jonah  and  the  whale, 

And  the  Sea! 

Here  comes  St.  Peter  and  his  fishing  pole. 

Here  comes  Judas  and  his  silver  a-calling. 

Here  comes  old  Beelzebub  a-calling." 

And  Daniel  kept  a-praying :  — "  Lord  save  my  soul." 

Daniel  kept  a-praying :  — "  Lord  save  my  soul." 

Daniel  kept  a-praying :  — "  Lord  save  my  soul." 

His  sweetheart  and  his  mother  were  Christian  and  meek. 
They  washed  and  ironed  for  Darius  every  week. 
One  Thursday  he  met  them  at  the  door :  — 
Paid  them  as  usual,  but  acted  sore. 

He  said:  — "  Your  Daniel  is  a  dead  little  pigeon. 
He's  a  good  hard  worker,  but  he  talks  religion." 
And  he  showed  them  Daniel  in  the  lion's  cage. 
Daniel  standing  quietly,  the  lions  in  a  rage. 


THE  DANIEL  JAZZ  91 

His  good  old  mother  cried :  — 

"  Lord  save  him." 

And  Daniel's  tender  sweetheart  cried :  — 

"  Lord  save  him." 

And  she  was  a  golden  lily  in  the  dew. 
And  she  was  as  sweet  as  an  apple  on  the  tree 
And  she  was  as  fine  as  a  melon  in  the  corn-field, 
Gliding  and  lovely  as  a  ship  on  the  sea, 
Gliding  and  lovely  as  a  ship  on  'the  sea. 

And  she  prayed  to  the  Lord :  — 
"  Send  Gabriel.     Send  Gabriel." 

King  Darius  said  to  the  lions :  — 
"  Bite  Daniel.     Bite  Daniel. 
Bite  him.     Bite  him.     Bite  him !  " 

Thus  roared  the  lions :  — 

"  We  want  Daniel,  Daniel,  Daniel, 

We  want  Daniel,  Daniel,  Daniel. 

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr:  &ere  the  au~ 

dience  roars 

Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr    with  the 

leader. 


THE  DANIEL  JAZZ 


And  Daniel  did  not  frown, 
Daniel  Jid  not  cry. 
He  kept  on  looking  at  the  sky. 
And  the  Lord  baid  to  Gabriel    — 
"  Go  chain  the  lions  down, 
Go  chain  the  lions  down. 
Go  chain  the  lions  down. 
Go  chain  the  lions  down." 


The  audience 
sings  this  with 
the  leader,  to 
the  old  negro 
tune. 


And  Gabriel  chained  the  lions, 

And  Gabriel  chained  the  lions, 

And  Gabriel  chained  the  lions, 

And  Daniel  got  out  of  the  den, 

And  Daniel  got  out  of  the  den, 

And  Daniel  got  out  of  the  den. 

And  Darius  said :  — "  You're  a  Christian  child," 

Darius  said :  — "  You're  a  Christian  child," 

Darius  said :  — "  You're  a  Christian  child," 

And  gave  him  his  job  again, 

And  gave  him  his  job  again, 

And  gave  him  his  job  again.; 


WHEN  PETER  JACKSON  PREACHED   95 


WHEN  PETER  JACKSON  PREACHED  IN 
THE  OLD  CHURCH 

To  be  sung  to  the  tune  of  the  old  Negro  Spiritual 
"  Every  time  I  feel  the  spirit  moving  in  my  heart 
I'll  pray." 

Peter  Jackson  was  a-preaching 

And  the  house  was  still  as  snow. 

He  whispered  of  repentance 

And  the  lights  were  dim  and  low 

And  were  almost  out 

When  he  gave  the  first  shout : 

"  Arise,  arise, 

Cry  out  your  eyes." 

And  we  mourned  all  our  terrible  sins  away. 

Clean,  clean  away. 

Then  we  marched  around,  around, 

And  sang  with  a  wonderful  sound :  — 

"  Every  time  I  feel  the  spirit  moving  in  my  heart  I'll 

pray. 
Every  time  I  feel  the  spirit  moving  in  my  heart  I'll 

pray." 


96        WHEN  PETER  JACKSON  PREACHED 

And  we  fell  by  the  altar 

And  fell  by  the  aisle, 

And  found  our  Savior 

In  just  a  little  while, 

We  all  found  Jesus  at  the  break  of  the  day, 

We  all  found  Jesus  at  the  break  of  the  day. 

Blessed  Jesus, 

Blessed  Jesus. 


THE  CONSCIENTIOUS  DEACON  97 


THE  CONSCIENTIOUS  DEACON 

A  song  to  be  syncopated  as  you  please 

Black  cats,  grey  cats,  green  cats  miau  — 
Chasing  the  deacon  who  stole  the  cow. 

v 

He  runs  and  tumbles,  he  tumbles  and  runs. 
He  sees  big  white  men  with  dogs  and  guns. 

He  falls  down  flat.     He  turns  to  stare  — 
No  cats,  no  dogs,  and  no  men  there. 

But  black  shadows,  grey  shadows,  green  shadows  come. 
The  wind  says,  "  Miau !  "  and  the  rain  says,  "  Hum !  " 

He  goes  straight  home.     He  dreams  all  night. 
He  howls.     He  puts  his  wife  in  a  fright. 

Black  devils,  grey  devils,  green  devils  shine  — 

Yes,  by  Sambo, 

And  the  fire  looks  fine ! 

Cat  devils,  dog  devils,  cow  devils  grin  — 


98  THE  CONSCIENTIOUS  DEACON 

Yes,  by  Sambo, 
And  the  fire  rolls  in. 

And  so,  next  day,  to  avoid  the  worst  — 
He  takes  that  cow 
Where  he  found  her  first. 


DAVY  JONES'  DOOR-BELL      99 


DAVY  JONES'  DOOR-BELL 

A  Chant  for  Boys  w'vth  Manly  Voices. 
Every  line  sung  one  step  deeper  than  the  line  preced 
ing. 

Any  sky-bird  sings, 

"  Ring,  ring!  " 
Any  church-chime  calls, 

"  Dong  ding!  " 
Any  cannon  says, 

"  Boom  bang!  " 
Any  whirlwind  says, 

"  Whing  whang!  " 
The  bell-buoy  hums  and  roars, 

"  Ding  dong!  " 
And  way  down  deep, 
Where  fishes  throng, 
By  Davy  Jones'  big  deep-sea  door, 
Shaking  the  ocean's  flowery  floor, 
His  door-bell  booms 

"  Dong  dong, 

Dong  dong,99 
Deep,  deep  down, 


100  DAVY  JONES'  DOOR-BELL 

"  Clang  boom, 
Boom  dong, 
Boom  dong, 
Boom  dong!  " 


THE  SEA  SERPENT  CHANTEY         101 


THE  SEA  SERPENT  CHANTEY 

i 

There's  a  snake  on  the  western  wave 

And  his  crest  is  red. 

He  is  long  as  a  city  street, 

And  he  eats  the  dead. 

There's  a  hole  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea 

Where  the  snake  goes  down. 

And  he  waits  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea 

For  the  men  that  drown. 

Chorus :  —  Let  the  audi 

ence  join  in 
This  is  the  voice  of  the  sand    the  chorus. 

(The  sailors  understand) 
"  There  is  far  more  sea  than  sand, 
There  is  far  more  sea  than  land.     Yo  .  .  , 
ho,  yo  .  .  .  ho." 

n 

He  waits  by  the  door  of  his  cave 

While  the  ages  moan. 

He  cracks  the  ribs  of  the  ships 


102    THE  SEA  SERPENT  CHANTEY 

With  his  teeth  of  stone. 

In  his  gizzard  deep  and  long 

Much  treasure  lies. 

Oh,  the  pearls  and  the  Spanish  gold.  . 

And  the  idols'  eyes.  .  .  . 

Oh,  the  totem  poles  ...  the  skulls  . 

The  altars  cold  .  .  . 

The  wedding  rings,  the  dice  .  .  . 

The  buoy  bells  old. 

Chorus :  —  This  is  the  voice,  etc. 

m 

Dive,  mermaids,  with  sharp  swords 
And  cut  him  through, 
And  bring  us  the  idols'  eyes 
And  the  red  gold  too. 
Lower  the  grappling  hooks 
Good  pirate  men 
And  drag  him  up  by  the  tongue 
From  his  deep  wet  den. 
We  will  sail  to  the  end  of  the  world, 
We  will  nail  his  hide 
To  the  main  mast  of  the  moon 
In  the  evening  tide. 

Chorus :  —  This  is  the  voice,  etc. 


THE  SEA  SERPENT  CHANTEY         103 

IV 

Or  will  you  let  him  live, 

The  deep-sea  thing, 

With  the  wrecks  of  all  the  world 

In  a  black  wide  ring 

By  the  hole  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea 

Where  the  snake  goes  down, 

Where  he  waits  in  the  bottom  of  the  sea 

For  the  men  that  drown? 

Chorus :  —  This  is  the  voice,  etc. 


104  THE  LITTLE  TURTLE 


THE  LITTLE  TURTLE 

A  Recitation  for  Martha  Wakefield,  Three  Years  Old 

There  was  a  little  turtle. 
He  lived  in  a  box. 
He  swam  in  a  puddle. 
He  climbed  on  the  rocks. 

He  snapped  at  a  musquito. 
He  snapped  at  a  flea. 
He  snapped  at  a  minnow. 
And  he  snapped  at  me. 

He  caught  the  musquito. 
He  caught  the  flea. 
He  caught  the  minnow. 
But  he  didn't  catch  me. 


THIRD  SECTION 
COBWEBS  AND  CABLES 


THE  SCIENTIFIC  ASPIRATION 

Would  that  the  dry  hot  wind  called  Science  came, 
Forerunner  of  a  higher  mystic  day, 
Though  vile  machine-made  commerce  clear  the  way 
Though  nature  losing  shame  should  lose  her  veil, 
And  ghosts  of  buried  angel-warriors  wail 
The  fall  of  Heaven,  and  the  relentless  Sun 
Smile  on,  as  Abraham's  God  forever  dies  — 
Lord,  give  us  Darwin's  eyes ! 


107 


108  THE  VISIT  TO  MAB 


THE  VISIT  TO  MAB 

When  glad  vacation  time  began 

A  snail-king  said  to  his  dear  spouse, 
"  Come,  let  us  lock  our  birch-bark  house 

And  visit  some  important  man. 

"  Each  summer  we  have  hoped  to  go 
To  see  the  sultan  Gingerbread 
Who  wears  chopped  citron  on  his  head 

And  currant  love-locks  in  a  row. 

"  And  see  his  vizier  Chocolate  Bill 

And  Popcorn  Man,  his  pale  young  priest, 
They  live  twelve  inches  to  the  east 

Behind  the  lofty  brown-bread  hill." 

His  wife  said :     "  Simple  elegance 
Is  what  we  want.     It  is  the  mode 
To  take  the  little  western  road 

To  where  the  blue-grass  fairies  dance. 


THE  VISIT  TO  MAB  109 

"  I  think  the  queen  will  recognize 

Our  atmosphere  of  wealth  and  ease. 

My  steel-grey  shell  is  sure  to  please, 
And  she  will  fear  your  firey  eyes." 

And  so  they  visited  proud  Mab. 
The  firs  were  laughing  overhead, 
The  chattering  roses  burned  deep-red. 

The  snails  were  queer  and  dumb  and  drab. 

The  contrast  made  them  quite  the  thing. 

A  setting  spells  success  at  times. 

Mab  gave  the  queen  a  book  of  rhymes. 
A  tissue-cap  she  gave  the  king, 

Like  caps  the  children  wear  for  sport. 
And  vainer  than  he  well  could  say 
He  called  gay  Mab  his  "  pride  and  stay," 

With  pompous  speeches  to  the  court. 

They  journeyed  home,  made  young  indeed, 
But  opening  the  book  of  song 
Each  poem  looked  so  deep  and  long 

They  could  not  bear  to  start  to  read. 


110      THE  SONG  OF  THE  STURDY  SNAILS 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  STURDY  SNAILS 

Gristly  bare-bone  fingers 
On  my  window-pane  — 
The  drumbeat  of  a  ghost 
Louder  than  the  rain! 


Oh  frail,  storm-shaken  hut  — 
No  candle,  not  a  spark 
Of  fire  within  the  grate. 
Oh  the  lonely  dark! 

Trembling  by  the  window 
I  watched  the  lightning  flash 
And  saw  the  little  villains 
Upon  the  outer  sash 

And  other  small  musicians 
Upon  the  window-pane  — 
Garden  snails,  a-dragging 
Their  shells  amid  the  rain ! 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  STURDY  SNAILS      111 

The  thunder  blew  away. 
My  happiness  began. 
Over  the  dripping  darkness 
Rills  of  moonlight  ran. 

In  the  silence  rich 
The  scratching  of  the  shells 
Became  a  crooning  music 
A  lazy  peal  of  bells. 

So  fearless  in  the  night 
My  sluggard  brothers  bold! 
Your  fancies  swift  and  glowing; 
Your  footsteps  slow  and  cold ! 

My  happy  beggar-brothers 
Tuning  all  together, 
Playing  on  the  pane 
Praise  of  stormy  weather ! 

Upon  a  ragged  pillow 

At  last  I  laid  my  head 

And  watched  the  sparkling  window 

And  the  wan  light  on  my  bed. 


112      THE  SONG  OF  THE  STURDY  SNAILS 

Through  the  glass  came  flying 
Dream  snails,  with  leafy  wings  — 
Glided  on  the  moonbeams  — 
And  all  the  snails  were  kings ! 

With  crowns  of  pollen  yellow 
And  eyes  of  firefly  gold 
Behold  —  to  crooning  music 
Their  coiling  wings  unrolled ! 

These  tiny  kings  I  saw 
Reigning  over  white 
Bisque  jars  of  fairy  flowers 
In  sturdy  proud  delight. 

These  j  ars  in  fairyland 
Await  good  snails  that  keep 
Vigils  on  the  windows 
Of  beggars  fast  asleep. 


SCIENTIFIC  ASPIRATION  113 


ANOTHER  WORD  ON  THE  SCIENTIFIC 
ASPIRATION 

"  There's  machinery  in  the  butterfly. 
There's  a  mainspring  to  the  bee. 
There's  hydraulics  to  a  daisy 
And  contraptions  to  a  tree. 

"  If  we  could  see  the  birdie 

That  makes  the  chirping  sound 

With  psycho-analytic  eyes, 

And  x  ray,  scientific  eyes, 

We  could  see  the  wheels  go  round." 

And  I  hope  all  men 
Who  think  like  this 
Will  soon  lie 
Underground. 


114  DANCING  FOR  A  PRIZE 


DANCING  FOR  A  PRIZE 

Three  fairies  by  the  Sangamon 

Were  dancing  for  a  prize. 
The  rascals  were  alike  indeed 

As  they  danced  with  drooping  eyes. 
I  gave  the  magic  acorn 

To  the  one  I  loved  the  best, 
The  imp  that  made  me  think  of  her 

My  heart's  eternal  guest, 
My  lady  of  the  tea-rose,  my  lady  far  away, 

Queen  of  the  fleets  of  No-Man's-Land 
That  sail  to  old  Cathay. 

How  did  the  trifler  hint  of  her? 
Ah,  when  the  dance  was  done 

They  begged  me  for  the  acorn, 
Laughing  every  one. 

Two  had  eyes  of  midnight, 
And  one  had  golden  eyes, 

And  I  gave  the  golden  acorn 
To  the  scamp  with  golden  eyes. 

Confessor  Dandelion, 


DANCING  FOR  A  PRIZE  115 

My  priest  so  grey  and  wise 

Whispered  when  I  gave  it 
To  the  girl  with  golden  eyes : 

"  She  is  like  your  Queen  of  Glory 
On  China's  holy  strand 

Who  drove  the  coiling  dragons 
Like  doves  before  her  hand." 


116         COLD  SUNBEAMS 


COLD  SUNBEAMS 

The  Question : 

"  Tell  me,  where  do  fairy  queens 

Find  their  bridal  veils?  " 

The  Answer : 

"  If  you  were  now  a  fairy  queen 
Then  I,  your  faithless  page  and  bold 
Would  win  the  realm  by  winning  you. 
Your  veil  would  be  transparent  gold 
White  magic  spiders  wove  for  you 
At  cold  grey  dawn,  from  sunbeams  cold 
While  robins  sang  amid  the  dew*" 


LACE  VALENTINES  117 


FOR  ALL  WHO  EVER  SENT  LACE 
VALENTINES 

The  little-bay  lover 
And  little-girl  lover 
Met  the  first  time 
At  the  house  of  a  friend. 
And  great  the  respect 
Of  the  little-boy  lover. 
The  awe  'and  the  fear  of  her 
Stayed  to  the  end. 

The  little  girl  chattered 
Incessantly  chattered, 
Hardly  would  look 
When  he  tried  to  be  nice. 
But  deeply  she  trembled 
The  little  girl  lover, 
Eaten  with  flame 
While  she  tried  to  be  ice. 

The  lion  of  loving 
The  terrible  lion 


118  LACE  VALENTINES 

Woke  in  the  two 

Long  before  they  could  wed. 

The  world  said :     «  Child  hearts 

You  must  keep  till  the  summer. 

It  is  not  allowed 

That  jour  hearts  should  be  red." 


If  only  a  wizard 

A  kindly  grey  wizard 

Had  built  them  a  house 

In  a  cave  underground. 

With  'an  emerald  door, 

And  honey  to  eat ! 

But  it  seemed  that  no  wizard 

Was  waiting  around. 

Oh  children  with  fancies, 
The  rarest  of  notions, 
The  rarest  of  passions 
And  hopes  here  below ! 
Many  a  child, 
His  young  heart  too  timid 
Has  fled  from  his  princess 
No  other  to  know. 


LACE  VALENTINES  119 

I  have  seen  them  with  faces 

Like  books  out  of  Heaven, 

With  messages  there 

The  harsh  world  should  read, 

The  lions  and  roses  and  lilies  of  love, 

Its  tender,  mystic,  tyrannical  need. 

Were  1  god  of  the  village 
My  servants  should  mate  them. 
Were  I  priest  of  the  church 
I  would  set  them  apart. 
If  the  wide  state  were  mine 
It  should  live  for  such  darlings, 
And  hedge  with  all  shelter 
The  child-wedded  heart. 


120  MY  LADY 


MY  LADY  IS  COMPARED  TO  A  YOUNG 
TREE 

When  I  see  a  young  tree 

In  its  white  beginning, 

With  white  leaves 

And  white  buds 

Barely  tipped  with  green, 

In  the  April  weather, 

In  the  weeping  sunshine  — • 

Then  I  see  my  lady, 

My  democratic  queen, 

Standing  free  and  equal 

With  the  youngest  woodland  sapling 

Swaying,  singing  in  the  wind, 

Delicate  and  white : 

Soul  so  near  to  blossom, 

Fragile,  strong  as  death ; 

A  kiss  from  far-off  Eden, 

A  flash  of  Judgment's  trumpet  — 

April's  breath. 


MAN'S  DREAM  OF  WIFEHOOD 


TO  EVE,  MAN'S  DREAM  OF  WIFEHOOD 
AS  DESCRIBED  BY  MILTON 

Darling  of  Milton  —  when  that  marble  man 
Saw  you  in  shadow,  coming  from  God's  hand 
Serene  and  young,  did  he  not  chant  for  you 
Praises  more  quaint  than  he  could  understand? 

"  To  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  man  " — 
So,  self-deceived,  his  printed  purpose  runs. 
His  love  for  you  is  the  true  key  to<  him, 
And  Uriel  and  Michael  were  your  sons. 

Your  bosom  nurtured  his  Urania. 
Your  meek  voice,  piercing  through  his  midnight  sleep 
Shook  him  far  more  than  silver  chariot  wheels 
Or  rattling  shields,  or  trumpets  of  the  deep. 

Titan  and  lover,  could  he  be  content 

With  Eden's  narrow  setting  for  your  spell? 

You  wound  soft  arms  around  his  brows.     He  smiled 

And  grimly  for  your  home  built  Heaven  and  Hell. 


MAN'S  DREAM  OF  WIFEHOOD 

That  was  his  posy.     A  strange  gift,  indeed. 
We  bring  you  what  we  can,  not  what  is  fit. 
Eve,  dream  of  wif  ehood !     Each  man  in  his  way 
Serves  you  with  chants  according  to  his  wit. 


A  KIND  OF  SCORN 


A  KIND  OF  SCORN 

You  do  not  know  my  pride 
Or  the  storm  of  scorn  I  ride. 

I  am  too  proud  to  kiss  you  and  leave  you 

Without  wonders 

Spreading  round  you  like  flame. 

I  am  too  proud  to  leave  you 

Without  love 

Haunting  your  very  name: 

Until  you  bear  the  Grail 

Above  your  head  in  splendor 

0  child,  dear  and  pale. 

1  am  too  proud  to  leave  you 
Though  we  part  forevermore 
Till  all  your  thoughts 

Go  up  toward  Glory's  door. 

Oh,  I  am  but  a  sinner  proud  and  poor, 

Utterly  without  merit 

To  help  you  climb  in  wonder 


A  KIND  OF  SCORN 

A  stair  toward  Heaven's  door  — 
Except  that  I  have  prayed  my  God, 
And  He  will  give  the  Grail, 
And  you  will  mourn  no  longer, 
Beset,  confused,  and  pale. 
And  God  will  lift  you  far  on  high, 
The  while  I  pray  and  pray 
Until  the  hour  I  die. 

The  effectual  fervent  prayer  availeth  much. 
And  my  first  prayer  ascends  this  proud  harsh 
day. 


HARPS  IN  HEAVEN  125 


HARPS  IN  HEAVEN 

I  will  bring  you  great  harps  in  Heaven, 

Made  of  giant  shells 

From  the  jasper  sea. 

With  a  thousand  burnt  up  years  behind, 

What  then  of  the  gulf  from  you  to  me? 

It  will  be  but  the  width  of  a  thread, 

Or  the  narrowest  leaf  of  our  sheltering  tree. 

You  dare  not  refuse  my  harps  in  Heaven. 

Or  angels  will  mock  you,  and  turn  away. 

Or  with  angel  wit, 

Will  praise  your  eyes, 

And  your  pure  Greek  lips,  and  bid  you  play, 

And  sing  of  the  love  from  them  to  you, 

And  then  of  my  poor  flaming  heart 

In  the  far  off  earth,  when  the  years  were  new. 

I  will  bring  you  such  harps  in  Heaven 

That  they  will  shake  at  your  touch  and  breath, 

Whose  threads  are  rainbows, 

Seventy  times  seven, 

Whose  voice  is  life,  and  silence  death. 


126  THE  CELESTIAL  CIRCUS 


THE  CELESTIAL  CIRCUS 

In  Heaven,  if  not  on  earth, 

You  and  I  will  be  dancing. 

I  will  whirl  you  over  my  head, 

A  torch  and  a  flag  and  a  bird, 

A  hawk  that  loves  my  shoulder, 

A  dove  with  plumes  outspread. 

We  will  whirl  for  God  when  the  trumpets 

Speak  the  millennial  word. 

We  will  howl  in  praise  of  God, 
Dervish  and  young  cyclone. 
We  will  ride  in  the  joy  of  God 
On  circus  horses  white. 
Your  feet  will  be  white  lightning, 
Your  spangles  white  and  regal, 
We  will  leap  from  the  horses'  backs 
To  the  cliffs  of  day  and  night. 

We  will  have  our  rest  in  the  pits  of  sleep 
When  the  darkness  heaps  upon  us, 


THE  CELESTIAL  CIRCUS  127 

And  buries  us  for  aeons 
Till  we  rise  like  grass  in  the  spring. 
We  will  come  like  dandelions, 
Like  buttercups  and  crocuses, 
And  all  the  winter  of  our  sleep 
But  make  us  storm  and  sing. 

We  will  tumble  like  swift  foam 

On  the  wave-crests  of  old  ghostland, 

And  dance  on  the  crafts  of  doom, 

And  wrestle  on  the  moon. 

And  Saturn  and  his  triple  ring 

Will  be  our  tinsel  circus, 

Till  all  sad  wraiths  of  yesterday 

With  the  stars  rej  oice  and  croon. 

O  dancer,  love  undying, 

My  soul,  my  swan,  my  eagle, 

The  first  of  our  million  dancing  years 

Dawns,  dawns  soon. 


128  THE  FIRE-LADDIE,  LOVE 


THE  FIRE-LADDIE,  LOVE 

The  door  has  a  bolt. 
The  window  a  grate. 
O  friend  we  are  trapped 
In  the  factory,  Fate. 
The  flames  pierce  the  ceiling. 
The  brands  heap  the  floor. 
But  listen,  dear  heart : 
A  song  at  the  door ! 
The  forcing  of  bolts, 
The  hewing  of  oak ! 
A  sword  breaks  the  lock 
With  one  cleaving  stroke. 
Naked  and  fair 
Unscathed  and  wild 
Behold  he  comes  swiftly, 
An  elfin-eyed  child. 
The  fire-laddie,  Love, 
Is  our  hero  this  night, 
As  he  walks  on  the  embers 
His  plumes  are  cloud  white. 


THE  FIRE-LADDIE,  LOVE  129 

He  sings  of  the  lightning 

And  snow  of  desire, 

His  step  parts  the  veil 

Of  the  factory  fire. 

Oh  his  chubby  child  hands, 

Oh  his  long  curls  agleam, 

From  oujb  their  soft  tossing 

Comes  thunder  and  dream. 

Our  fire-laddie,  Love, 

At  the  last  moment  here, 

To  bear  us  away 

To  a  road  without  fear, 

To  the  dark,  to  the  wind, 

To  the  mist,  to  the  dawn, 

Where  the  lilac  blooms  nod 

By  the  rain  renewed  lawn. 

To  a  land  of  deep  knowledge 

Our  tired  feet  are  led, 

While  the  stars  of  new  morning 

Still  glint  overhead. 

Sweet  Love  walks  between  us 

With  silences  long. 

His  step  is  the  music. 

The  day  is  the  song. 


FOURTH  SECTION 

RHYMES  CONCERNING  THE  LATE  WORLD 
WAR  AND  THE  NEXT  WAR 


IN  MEMORY  OF  MY  FRIEND  JOYCE 
KILMER,  POET  AND  SOLDIER 

Written  Armistice  Day,  November  eleventh,  1918 

I  hear  a  thousand  chimes, 
I  hear  ten  thousand  chimes, 
I  hear  a  million  chimes 
In  Heaven. 

I  see  a  thousand  bells, 
I  see  ten  thousand  bells, 
I  see  a  million  bells 
In  Heaven. 

Listen,  friends  and  companions. 
Through  the  deep  heart, 
Sweetly  they  toll. 

I  hear  the  chimes 
Of  tomorrow  ring, 
The  azure  bells 
Of  eternal  love.  .  .  . 

I  see  the  chimes 

133 


134  MY  FRIEND  JOYCE  KILMER 

Of  tomorrow  swing: 
On  unseen  ropes 
They  gleam  above. 

Rejoice,  friends  and  companions. 
Through  the  deep  heart 
Sweetly  they  toll. 

They  shake  the  sky 
They  blaze  and  sing. 
They  fill  the  air 
Like  larks  a-wing, 
Like  storm-clouds 
Turned  to  blue-bell  flowers. 
Like  Spring  gone  mad, 
Like  stars  in  showers. 

Join  the  song, 
Friends  and  companions. 
Through  the  deep  heart 
'Sweetly  they  toll. 

And  some  are  near, 
And  touch  my  hand, 
Small  whispering  blooms 


MY  FRIEND  JOYCE  KILMER  135 

From  Beulah  L#nd. 

Giants  afar 

Still  touch  the  sky, 

Still  give  their  giant 

Battle-cry. 

Join  hands,  friends  and  companions. 
Through  the  deep  heart 
Sweetly  they  toll. 

And  every  bell 

Is  voice  and  breath 

Of  a  spirit 

Who  has  conquered  death, 

In  this  great  war 

Has  given  all, 

Like  Kilmer 

Heard  the  hero-call. 

Join  hands, 

Poets, 

Friends, 

Companions. 

Through  the  deep  heart 

Sweetly  they  toll! 


136  THE  TIGER  ON  PARADE 


THE  TIGER  ON  PARADE 

The  Sparrow  and  the  Robin  on  a  toot 
Drunk  on  honey-dew  and  violet's  breath 
Came  knocking  at  the  brazen  bars  of  Death. 
And  Death,  no  other  than  a  tiger  caged, 
In  a  street  parade  that  had  no  ending, 
Roared  at  them  and  clawed  at  them  and  raged  — 
Whose  chirping  was  the  height  of  their  offending. 
His  paws  too  big  —  their  fluttering  bodies  small 
Escaped  unscathed  above  the  City  Hall. 

They  learned  new  dances,  scattering  birdy  laughter, 
And  filled  again  their  throats  with  honey-dew. 
A  Maltese  kitten  killed  them,  two  days  after. 
But  they  had  had  their  fill.     It  was  enough :  — 
Had  quarreled,  made  up,  on  many  a  lilac  swayed, 
Darted  through  sunny  thunder-clouds  and  rainbows, 
High  above  that  tiger  on  parade. 


• 


THE  FEVER  CALLED  WAR     137 


THE  FEVER  CALLED  WAR 

Love  and  Kindness, 
Two  sad  shadows 
Over  the  old  nations, 
Bigger  than  the  world, 
Mists  above  a  grave ! 

Says  Love,  the  shadow 
To  Kindness  the  shadow :  — 
"  I  weep  for  the  children 
No  miracle  will  save. 
All  the  little  children 
Are  down  with  the  fever, 
Thousands  upon  thousands, 
Blind  and  deaf  and  mad. 
Their  fathers  are  all  dead, 
And  the  same  raging  fever 
Is  burning  up  the  children, 
The  babes  that  once  were  glad," 


138  CONQUERING  MEXICO 


STANZAS  IN  JUST  THE  RIGHT  TONE  FOR 

THE  SPIRITED  GENTLEMEN  WHO 

WOULD  CONQUER  MEXICO 

ALEXANDER 

Would  I  might  waken  in  you  Alexander, 
Murdering  the  nations  wickedly, 
Flooding  his  time  with  blood  remorselessly, 
Sowing  new  Empires,  where  the  Athenian  light, 
Knowledge  and  music,  slay  the  Asian  night, 
And  men  behold  Apollo  in  the  sun. 
God  make  us  splendid,  though  by  grievous  wrong. 
God  make  us  fierce  and  strong. 

MOHAMMED 

Would  that  on  horses  swifter  than  desire 

We  rode  behind  Mohammed  'round  the  zones 

With  swords  unceasing,  sowing  fields  of  bones, 

Till  New  America,  ancient  Mizraim, 

Cry :     "  Allah  is  the  God  of  Abraham." 

God  make  our  host  relentless  as  the  sun, 

Each  soul  your  spear,  your  banner  and  your  slave, 

God  help  us  to  be  brave. 


CONQUERING  MEXICO  139 

NAPOLEON 

Would  that  the  cold  adventurous  Corsican 

Woke  with  new  hope  of  glory,  strong  from  sleep, 

Instructed  how  to  conquer  and  to  keep 

More  justly,  having  dreamed  awhile,  yea  crowned 

With  shining  flowers,  God-given;  while  the  sound 

Of  singing  continents,  following  the  sun, 

Calls  freeborn  men  to  guard  Napoleon's  throne 

Who  makes  the  eternal  hopes  of  man  his  own. 


140  THE  MODEST  JAZZ-BIRD 


THE  MODEST  JAZZ-BIRD 

The  Jazz-bird  sings  a  barnyard  song  — 

A  cock-a-doodle  bray, 
A  jingle-bells,  a  boiler  works, 

A  he-man's  roundelay. 

The  eagle  said,  "  My  noisy  son, 

I  send  you  out  to  fight ! " 
So  the  youngster  spread  his  sunflower  wings 

And  roared  with  all  his  might. 

His  headlight  eyes  went  flashing 

From  Oregon  to  Maine; 
And  the  land  was  dark  with  airships 

In  the  darting  Jazz-bird's  train. 

Crossing  the  howling  ocean, 
His  bell-mouth  shook  the  sky; 

And  the  Yankees  in  the  trenches 
Gave  back  the  hue  and  cry. 


THE  MODEST  JAZZ-BIRD  141 

And  Europe  had  not  heard  the  like  — 

And  Germany  went  down ! 
The  fowl  of  steel  with  clashing  claws 

Tore  off  the  Kaiser's  crown. 


142   STATUE  OF  OLD  ANDREW  JACKSON 


When  the  statue  of  Andrew  Jackson  before  the  White 
House  in  Washington  is  removed,  America  is  doomed. 
The  nobler  days  of  America's  innocence,  in  which  it  was 
set  up,  always  have  a  special  tang  for  those  who  are 
tasty.  But  this  is  not  all.  It  is  only  the  America  that 
has  the  courage  of  her  complete  past  that  can  hold  up 
her  head  in  the  world  of  the  artists,  priests  and  sages. 
It  is  for  us  to  put  the  iron  dog  and  deer  back  upon  the 
lawn,  the  John  Rogers  group  back  into  the  parlor,  and 
get  new  inspiration  from  these  and  from  Andrew  Jack 
son  ramping  in  bronze  replica  in  New  Orleans,  Nash 
ville  and  Washington,  and  add  to  them  a  sense  of  humor, 
till  it  becomes  a  sense  of  beauty  that  will  resist  the 
merely  dulcet  and  affettuoso. 

Please  read  Lorado  Taft's  History  of  American 
Sculpture,  pages  123-127,  with  these  matters  in  mind. 
I  quote  a  few  bits : 

".  .  .  The  maker  of  the  first  equestrian  statue  in  the 
history  of  American  sculpture :  Clark  Mills.  .  .  .  Never 
having  seen  General  Jackson  or  an  equestrian  statue,  he 
felt  himself  incompetent  .  .  .  the  incident,  however, 
made  an  impression  on  his  mind,  and  he  reflected  suffi 
ciently  to  produce  a  design  which  was  the  very  one  sub- 


STATUE  OF  OLD  ANDREW  JACKSON 

sequently  executed.  .  .  .  Congress  appropriated  the 
old  cannon  captured  by  General  Jackson.  .  .  .  Having 
no  notion,  nor  even  suspicion  of  a  dignified  sculptural 
treatment  of  a  theme,  the  clever  carpenter  felt,  never 
theless,  the  need  of  a  feature.  .  .  .  He  built  a  colossal 
horse,  adroitly  balanced  on  the  hind  legs,  and  America 
gazed  with  bated  breath.  Nobody  knows  or  cares 
whether  the  rider  looks  like  Jackson  or  not. 

"  The  extraordinary  pose  of  the  horse  absorbs  all 
attention,  all  admiration.  There  may  be  some  subcon 
scious  feeling  of  respect  for  a  rider  who  holds  on  so 
weU.  ." 


144      STATUE  OF  OLD  ANDREW  JACKSON 


THE  STATUE  OF  OLD  ANDREW  JACKSON 

Written  while  America  was  m  the  midst  of  the  war  with 
Germany,  August,  1918 

Andrew  Jackson  was  eight  feet  tall. 

His  arm  was  a  hickory  limb  and  a  maul. 

His  sword  was  so  long  he  dragged  it  on  the  ground. 

Every  friend  was  an  equal.     Every  foe  was  a  hound. 

Andrew  Jackson  was  a  Democrat, 
Defying  kings  in  his  old  cocked  hat. 
His  vast  steed  rocked  like  a  hobby-horse. 
But  he  sat  straight  up.     He  held  his  course. 

He  licked  the  British  at  Noo  Orleens ; 

Beat  them  out  of  their  elegant  jeans. 

He  piled  the  cotton-bales  twenty  feet  high, 

And  he  snorted  "  freedom,"  and  it  flashed  from  his  eye. 

And  the  American  Eagle  swooped  through  the  air, 
And  cheered  when  he  heard  the  Jackson  swear:  — 


STATUE  OF  OLD  ANDREW  JACKSON      145 

"  By  the  Eternal,  let  them  come. 

Sound  Yankee  Doodle.     Let  the  bullets  hum." 

And  his  wild  men,  straight  from  the  woods,  fought  on 
Till  the  British  fops  were  dead  and  gone. 

And  now  Old  Andrew  Jackson  fights 
To  set  the  sad  big  world  to  rights. 
He  joins  the  British  and  the  French. 
He  cheers  up  the  Italian  trench. 
He's  making  Democrats  of  these, 
And  freedom's  sons  of  Japanese. 
His  hobby  horse  will  gallop  on 
Till  all  the  infernal  Huns  are  gone. 

Yes, 

Yes, 

Yes? 

By  the  Eternal! 

Old  Andrew  Jackson! 


146          SEW  THE  FLAGS  TOGETHER 


SEW  THE  FLAGS  TOGETHER 

Great  wave  of  youth,  ere  you  be  spent, 

Sweep  over  every  monument 

Of  caste,  smash  every  high  imperial  wall 

That  stands  against  the  new  World  State, 

And  overwhelm  each  ravening  hate, 

And  heal,  and  make  blood-brothers  of  us  all. 

Nor  let  your  clamor  cease 

Till  ballots  conquer  guns. 

Drum  on  for  the  world's  peace 

Till  the  Tory  power  is  gone. 

Envenomed  lame  old  age 

Is  not  our  heritage, 

But  springtime's  vast  release,  and  flaming  dawn, 

Peasants,  rise  in  splendor 
And  your  accounting  render 
Ere  the  lords  unnerve  your  hand  1 
Sew  the  flags  together. 
Do  not  tear  them  down. 
Hurl  the  worlds  together. 


SEW  THE  FLAGS  TOGETHER          147 

Dethrone  the  wallowing  monster 

And  the  clown. 

Resolving :  — 

"  Only  that  shall  grow 

In  Balkan  furrow,  Chinese  row, 

That  blooms,  and  is  perpetually  young." 

That  only  be  held  fine  and  dear 

That  brings  heart-wisdom  year  by  year 

And  puts  this  thrilling  word  upon  the  tongue : 

"  The  United  States  of  Europe,  Asia,  and  the  World." 

"  Youth  will  be  served,"  now  let  us  cry. 

Hurl  the  referendum. 

Your  fathers,  five  long  years  ago, 

Resolved  to  strike,  too  late. 

Now 

Sun-crowned  crowds 

Innumerable, 

Of  boys  and  girls 

Imperial, 

With  your  patchwork  flag  of  brotherhood 

On  high, 

With  every  silk 

In  one  flower-banner  whirled  — 

Rise, 


148          SEW  THE  FLAGS  TOGETHER 

Citizens  of  one  tremendous  state, 

The  United  States  of  Europe,  Asia,  and  the  World. 

The  dawn  is  rose-drest  and  impearled. 

The  guards  of  privilege  are  spent. 

The  blood-fed  captains  nod. 

So  Saxon,  Slav,  French,  German, 

Rise, 

Yankee,  Chinese,  Japanese, 

All  the  lands,  all  the  seas, 

With  the  blazing  rainbow  flag  unfurled, 

Rise,  rise, 

Take  the  sick  dragons  by  surprise, 

Highly  establish, 

In  the  name  of  God, 

The  United  States  of  Europe,  Asia,  and  the  World. 

Written  for  William  Stanley  Braithwaite's  Victory  Anthology 
issued  at  once,  after  Armistice  Day,  November,  1918. 


JUSTINIAN  149 


JUSTINIAN 

(The  Tory  Reply) 

Nay,  let  us  have  the  marble  peace  of  Rome, 
Recorded  in  the  Code  Justinian, 
Till  Pagan  Justice  shelters  man  from  man. 
Fanatics  snarl  like  mongrel  dogs ;  the  code 
Will  build  each  custom  like  a  Roman  Road, 
Direct  as  daylight,  clear-eyed  as  the  sun. 
God  grant  all  crazy  world-disturbers  cease. 
God  give  us  honest  peace. 


150      VOICE  OF  ST.  FRANCIS  OF  ASSISI 


THE  VOICE  OF  ST.  FRANCIS  OF  ASSISI 

I  saw  St.  Francis  by  a  stream 
Washing  his  wounds  that  bled. 
The  aspens  quivered  overhead. 
The  silver  doves  flew  round. 

> 

Weeping  and  sore  dismayed 

"  Peace,  peace,"  St.  Francis  prayed. 

But  the  soft  doves  quickly  fled. 

Carrion  crows  flew  round. 

An  earthquake  rocked  the  ground. 

"  War,  war,"  the  west  wind  said.: 


ROOSEVELT  COMPARED  TO  SAUL   151 


IN  WHICH  ROOSEVELT  IS  COMPARED  TO 
SAUL 

Written  and  published  in  19 IS,  and  republished  five 
years  later,  in  The  Boston  Transcript,  on  the 
death  of  Roosevelt. 

Where  is  David?  .  .  .  Oh  God's  people 
Saul  has  passed,  the  good  and  great. 
Mourn  for  Saul,  the  first  anointed, 
Head  and  shoulders  o'er  the  state. 

He  was  found  among  the  prophets : 
Judge  and  monarch,  merged  in  one. 
But  the  wars  of  Saul  are  ended, 
And  the  works  of  Saul  are  done. 

Where  is  David,  ruddy  shepherd, 
God's  boy-king  for  Israel? 
Mystic,  ardent,  dowered  with  beauty, 
Singing  where  still  waters  dwell? 


152      ROOSEVELT  COMPARED  TO  SAUL 

Prophet,  find  that  destined  minstrel 
Wandering  on  the  range  today, 
Driving  sheep,  and  crooning  softly 
Psalms  that  cannot  pass  away. 

u  David  waits,"  the  prophet  answers, 
"  In  a  black,  notorious  den, 
In  a  cave  upon  the  border, 
With  four  hundred  outlaw  men. 

"  He  is  fair  and  loved  of  women, 
Mighty  hearted,  born  to  sing: 
Thieving,  weeping,  erring,  praying, 
Radiant,  royal  rebel-king. 

"  He  will  come  with  harp  and  psaltry, 
Quell  his  troop  of  convict  swine, 
Quell  his  mad-dog  roaring  rascals, 
Witching  them  with  tunes  divine. 

"  They  will  ram  the  walls  of  Zion. 
They  will  win  us  Salem  hill, 
All  for  David,  shepherd  David, 
Singing  like  a  mountain  rill." 


HAIL  TO  THE  SONS  OF  ROOSEVELT      153 


HAIL  TO  THE  SONS  OF  ROOSEVELT 

"  Out  of  the  eater  came  forth  meaty  and  out  of  the 
strong  came  forth  sweetness." — Samson's  riddle. 

There  is  no  name  for  brother 
Like  the  name  of  Jonathan 
The  son  of  Saul. 
And  so  we  greet  you  all : 
The  sons  of  Roosevelt  — • 
The  sons  of  Saul. 

Four  brother  Jonathans  went  out  to  battle. 

Let  every  Yankee  poet  sing  their  praise 

Through  all  the  days  — 

Wliat  David  sang  of  Saul 

And  Jonathan,  beloved  more  than  all. 

God  grant  such  sons,  begot  of  our  young  men, 
To  make  each  generation  glad  again. 
Let  sons  of  Saul  be  springing  up  again : 
Out  of  the  eater,  fire  and  power  again. 
From  the  lost  lion,  honey  for  all  men. 


154      HAIL  TO  THE  SONS  OF  ROOSEVELT 

I  hear  the  sacred  Rocky  Mountains  call, 
I  hear  the  Mississippi  Jordan  call : 
"  Stand  up,  America,  and  praise  them  all, 
Living  and  dead,  the  fine  young  sons  of  Saul! ' 


THE  SPACIOUS  DAYS  OF  ROOSEVELT   155 


THE  SPACIOUS  DAYS  OF  ROOSEVELT 

These  were  the  spacious  days  of  Roosevelt. 
Would  that  among  you  chiefs  like  him  arose 
To  win  the  wrath  of  our  united  foes, 
To  chain  King  Mammon  in  the  donjon-keep, 
To  rouse  our  godly  citizens  that  sleep 
Till  as  one  soul,  we  shout  up  to  the  sun 
The  battle-yell  of  freedom  and  the  right  — 
"  Lord,  let  good  men  unite." 

Nay,  I  would  have  you  lonely  and  despised. 
Statesmen  whom  only  statesmen  understand, 
Artists  whom  only  artists  can  command, 
Sages  whom  all  but  sages  scorn,  whose  fame 
Dies  down  in  lies,  in  synonyms  for  shame 
With  the  best  populace  beneath  the  sun. 
God  give  us  tasks  that  martyrs  can  revere, 
Still  too  much  hated  to  be  whispered  here. 

Would  we  might  drink,  with  knowledge  high  and  kind 
The  hemlock  cup  of  Socrates  the  king, 
Knowing  right  well  we  know  not  anything, 


156      THE  SPACIOUS  DAYS  OF  ROOSEVELT 

With  full  life  done,  bowing  before  the  law, 
Binding  young  thinkers'  hearts  with  loyal  awe, 
And  fealty  fixed  as  the  ever-enduring  sun  — 
God  let  us  live,  seeking  the  highest  light, 
God  help  us  die  aright. 

Nay,  I  would  have  you  grand,  and  still  forgotten, 
Hid  like  the  stars  at  noon,  as  he  who  set 
The  Egyptian  magic  of  man's  alphabet ; 
Or  that  far  Coptic,  first  to  dream  in  pain 
That  dauntless  souls  cannot  by  death  be  slain  — 
Conquering  for  all  men  then,  the  fearful  grave. 
God  keep  us  hid,  yet  vaster  far  than  death. 
God  help  us  to  be  brave. 


FIFTH  SECTION 

RHYMES  OF  THE  MIDDLE  WEST  AND 
SPRINGFIELD,  ILLINOIS 


WHEN  THE  MISSISSIPPI  FLOWED  IN 
INDIANA 

Inscribed  to  Bruce  Campbell,  who  read  Tom  Sawyer 
with  me  m  the  old  house 

Beneath  Time's  roaring  cannon 
Many  walls  fall  down. 
But  though  the  guns  break  every  stone, 
Level  every  town :  — 
Within  our  Grandma's  old  front  hall 
Some  wonders  flourish  yet :  — 
The  Pavement  of  Verona, 
Where  stands  young  Juliet, 
The  roof  of  Blue-beard's  palace, 
And  Kublai  Khan's  wild  ground, 
The  cave  of  young  Aladdin, 
Where  the  jewel-flowers  were  found, 
And  the  garden  of  old  Sparta 
Where  little  Helen  played, 
The  grotto  of  Miranda 
That  Prospero  arrayed, 
159 


160         THE  MISSISSIPPI  IN  INDIANA 

And  the  cave,  by  the  Mississippi, 
Where  Becky  Thatcher  strayed. 

On  that  Indiana  stairway 
Gleams  Cinderella's  shoe. 
Upon  that  mighty  mountainside 
Walks  Snow-white  in  the  dew. 
Upon  that  grassy  hillside 
Trips  shining  Nicolette :  — 
That  stairway  of  remembrance 
Time's  cannon  will  not  get  — 
That  chattering  slope  of  glory 
Our  little  cousins  made, 
That  hill  by  the  Mississippi 
Where  Becky  Thatcher  strayed. 

Spring  beauties  on  that  cliffside, 

Love  in  the  air, 

While  the  soul'is  deep  Mississippi 

Sweeps  on,  forever  fair. 

And  he  who  enters  in  the  cave, 

Nothing  shall  make  afraid, 

The  cave  by  the  Mississippi 

Where  Tom  and  Becky  strayed. 


THE  FAIRY  FROM  THE  APPLE-SEED      161 


THE  FAIRY  FROM  THE  APPLE-SEED 

Oh  apple-seed  I  planted  in  a  silly  shallow  place 

In   a   bowl   of  wrought   silver,   with   Sangamon   earth 

within  it, 

Oh  baby  tree  that  came,  without  an  apple  on  it, 
A  tree  that  grew  a  tiny  height,  but  thickened  on  apace, 
With  bossy  glossy  arms,  and  leaves  of  trembling  lace. 

One  night  the  trunk  was  rent,  and  the  heavy  bowl  rocked 

round, 
The  boughs  were  bending  here  and  there,  with  a  curious 

locust  sound, 

And  a  tiny  dryad  came,  from  out  the  doll  tree, 
And  held  the  boughs  in  ivory  hands, 
And  waved  her  black  hair  round, 
And  climbed,  and  ate  with  merry  words 
The  sudden  fruit  it  bore. 
And  in  the  leaves  she  hides  and  sings 
And  guards  my  study  door. 

She  guards  it  like  a  watchdog  true 
And  robbers  run  away. 


162      THE  FAIRY  FROM  THE  APPLE-SEED 

Her  eyes  are  lifted  spears  all  night, 
But  dove-eyes  in  the  day. 

And  she  is  stranger,  stronger 

Than  the  funny  human  race. 

Lovelier  her  form,  and  holier  her  face. 

She  feeds  me  flowers  and  fruit 

With  a  quaint  grace. 

She  dresses  in  the  apple-leaves 

As  delicate  as  lace. 

This  girl  that  came  from  Sangamon  earth 

In  a  bowl  of  silver  bright 

From  an  apple-seed  I  planted  in  a  silly  shallow  place. 


A  HOT  TIME  IN  THE  OLD  TOWN      163 


A  HOT  TIME  IN  THE  OLD  TOWN 

Guns  salute,  and  crows  and  pigeons  fly, 

Bronzed,  Homeric  bards  go  striding  by, 

Shouting  "  Glory  "  amid  the  cannonade :  — 

It  is  the  cross-roads 

Resurrection 

Parade. 

Actors,  craftsmen,  builders,  join  the  throng, 
Painters,  sculptors,  florists  tramp  along, 
Farm-boys  prance,  in  tinsel,  tin  and  jade:— -. 
It  is  the  cross-roads 
Love  and  Laughter 
Crusade. 

The  sun  is  blazing  big  as  all  the  sky, 

The  mustard-plant  with  the  sunflower  climbing  high, 

With  the  Indian  corn  in  fiery  plumes  arrayed:  — 

It  is  the  cross-roads 

Love  and  Beauty 

Crusade. 


164      A  HOT  TIME  IN  THE  OLD  TOWN 

Free  and  proud  and  mellow  jamboree, 

Roar  and  foam  upon  the  prairie  sea, 

Tom  turkeys  sing  the  sun  a  serenade :  — - 

It  is  the  cross-roads 

Resurrection 

Parade. 

Our  sweethearts  dance,  with  wands  as  white  as  milk, 

With  veils  of  gold  and  robes  of  silver  silk, 

Their  caps  in  velvet  pansy-patterns  made :  — 

It  is  the  cross-roads 

Resurrection 

Parade. 

Wandering  'round  the  shrines  we  understand, 
Waving  oak-boughs  cheap  and  close  at  hand, 
And  field-flowers  fair,  for  which  no  man  has  paid :  — 
It  is  the  cross-roads 
Love  and  Beauty- 
Crusade. 

Hieroglyphic  marchers  here  we  bring. 
Rich  inscriptions  strut  and  talk  and  sing. 
A  scroll  to  read,  a  picture-word  brigade :  — 
It  is  the  cross-roads 


A  HOT  TIME  IN  THE  OLD  TOWN      165 

Love  and  Laughter 
Crusade. 

Swans  for  symbols  deck  the  banners  rare, 

Mighty  acorn-signs  command  the  air, 

For  hearts  of  oak,  by  flying  beauty  swayed:  — 

It  is  the  cross-roads 

Resurrection 

Parade. 

The  flags  are  big,  like  rainbows  flashing  'round, 

They  spread  like  sails,  and  lift  us  from  the  ground, 

Star-born  ships,  that  have  come  in  masquerade:  — 

It  is  the  cross-roads 

Resurrection 

Parade. 


166      DREAM  OF  SPRINGFIELD  WRITERS 


THE  DREAM  OF  ALL  OF  THE  SPRINGFIELD 
WRITERS 

I'll  haunt  this  town,  though  gone  the  maids  and  men, 
The  darling  few,  my  friends  and  loves  today. 
My  ghost  returns,  bearing  a  great  sword-pen 
When  far  off  children  of  their  children  play. 

That  pen  will  drip  with  moonlight  and  with  fire. 

I'll  write  upon  the  church-doors  and  the  walls. 

And  reading  there,  young  hearts  shall  leap  the  higher 

Though  drunk  already  with  their  own  love-calls. 

Still  led  of  love  and  arm  in  arm,  strange  gold 
Shall  find  in  tracing  the  far-speeding  track 
The  dauntless  war-cries  that  my  sword-pen  bold 
Shall  carve  on  terraces  and  tree-trunks  black  — 

On  tree-trunks  black  beneath  the  blossoms  white :  — 
Just  as  the  phosphorent  merman,  bound  for  home 
Jewels  his  fire-path  in  the  tides  at  night 
While  hurrying  sea-babes  follow  through  the  foam. 


DREAM  OF  SPRINGFIELD  WRITERS      167 

And  in  December  when  the  leaves  are  dead 

And  the  first  snow  has  carpeted  the  street 

While  young  cheeks  flush  a  healthful  Christmas  red 

And  young  eyes  glisten  with  youth's  fervor  sweet  — 

My  pen  shall  cut  in  winter's  snowy  floor 
Cries  that  in  channelled  glory  leap  and  shine, 
My  Village  Gospel,  living  evermore 
Amid  rejoicing,  loyal  friends  of  mine* 


168     SPRINGFIELD  OF  THE  FAR  FUTURE 


THE  SPRINGFIELD  OF  THE  FAR  FUTURE 

Some  day  our  town  will  grow  old. 
"  She  is  wicked  and  raw,"  men  say, 
"  Awkward  and  brash  and  profane." 
But  the  years  have  a  healing  way. 
The  years  of  God  are  like  bread, 
Balm  of  Gilead  'and  sweet. 
And  the  soul  of  this  little  town 
Our  Father  will  make  complete. 

Some  day  our  town  will  grow  old, 
Filled  with  the  fullness  of  time, 
Treasure  on  treasure  heaped 
Of  beauty's  tradition  sublime. 
Proud  and  gay  and  grey 
Like  Hannah  with  Samuel  blest. 
Humble  and  girlish  and  white 
Like  Mary,  the  manger  guest. 

Like  Mary  the  manger  queen 
Bringing  the  God  of  Light 


SPRINGFIELD  OF  THE  FAR  FUTURE      169 

Till  Christmas  is  here  indeed 
And  earth  has  no  more  of  night, 
And  hosts  of  Magi  come, 
The  wisest  under  the  sun 
Bringing  frankincense  and  praise 
For  her  gift  of  the  Infinite  One. 


170      THE  FALL  OF  BABYLON 


AFTER  READING  THE  SAD  STORY  OF  THE 
FALL  OF  BABYLON 

Oh  Lady,  my  city,  and  new  flower  of  the  prairie, 

What  have  we  to  do  with  this  long  time  ago  ? 

Oh  lady  love, 

Bud  of  tomorrow, 

With  eyes  that  hold  the  hundred  years 

Yet  to  ebb  and  flow, 

And  breasts  that  burn 

With  great  great  grandsons 

All  their  valor,  all  their  tears, 

A  century  hence  shall  know, 

What  have  we  to  do 

With  this  long  time  ago? 


ALEXANDER  CAMPBELL  171 


"  The  present  material  universe,  yet  unrevealed  in  all 
its  area,  in  all  its  tenantries,  in  all  its  riches,  beauty  and 
grandeur  will  be  wholly  regenerated.  Of  this  fact  we 
have  full  assurance  since  He  that  now  sits  upon  the 
throne  of  the  Universe  has  pledged  His  word  for  it, 
saying :  '  Behold  I  will  create  all  things  new,'  conse 
quently,  *  new  heavens,  new  earth,'  consequently,  new 
tenantries,  new  employments,  new  pleasures,  new  joys, 
new  ecstasies.  There  is  a  fullness  of  joy,  a  fullness  of 
glory  and  a  fullness  of  blessedness  of  which  no  living 
man,  however  enlightened,  however  enlarged,  however 
gifted,  ever  formed  or  entertained  one  adequate  concep 
tion." 

The  above  is  the  closing  paragraph  in  Alexander 
Campbell's  last  essay  in  the  Millennial  Harbinger,  which 
he  had  edited  thirty-five  years.  This  paragraph  ap 
peared  November,  1865,  four  months  before  his  death. 


172  ALEXANDER  CAMPBELL 


ALEXANDER  CAMPBELL 
I  — MY  FATHERS  CAME  FROM  KENTUCKY 

I  was  born  in  Illinois, — 
Have  lived  there  many  days. 
And  I  have  Northern  words, 
And  thoughts, 
And  ways. 

But  my  great  grandfathers  came 
To  the  west  with  Daniel  Boone, 
And  taught  his  babes  to  read, 
And  heard  the  red-bird's  tune ; 

And  heard  the  turkey's  call, 
And  stilled  the  panther's  cry, 
And  rolled  on  the  blue-grass  hills, 
And  looked  God  in  the  eye. 

And  feud  and  Hell  were  theirs ; 
Love,  like  the  moon's  desire, 


ALEXANDER  CAMPBELL  173 

Love  like  a  burning  mine, 
Love  like  rifle-fire. 


I  tell  tales  out  of  school 
Till  these  Yankees  hate  my  style. 
Why  should  the  young  cad  cry, 
Shout  with  j  oy  for  a  mile  ? 

Why  do  I  faint  with  love 
Till  the  prairies  dip  and  reel? 
My  heart  is  a  kicking  horse 
Shod  with  Kentucky  steel. 

No  drop  of  my  blood  from  north 
Of  Mason  and  Dixon's  line. 
And  this  racer  in  my  breast 
Tears  my  ribs  for  a  sign. 

But  I  ran  in  Kentucky  hills 

Last  week.     They  were  hearth  and  home. 

And  the  church  at  Grassy  Springs, 

Under  the  red  bird's  wings 

Was  peace  and  honeycomb. 


174  ALEXANDER  CAMPBELL 


II  — WRITTEN  IN  A  YEAR  WHEN  MANY 
OF  MY  PEOPLE  DIED 

I  have  begun  to  count  my  dead. 
They  wave  green  branches 
Around  my  head, 

Put  their  hands  upon  my  shoulders. 
Stand  behind  me, 
Fly  above  me  — 
Presences  that  love  me. 
They  watch  me  daily, 
Murmuring,  gravely,  gaily, 
Praising,  reproving,  readily. 
And  every  year  that  company 
Grows  the  greater,  steadily. 
And  every  day  I  count  my  dead 
In  robes  of  sunrise,  blue  and  red. 


ALEXANDER  CAMPBELL  175 


III  —  A  RHYMED  ADDRESS  TO  ALL  RENE 
GADE  CAMPBELLITES,  EXHORTING 
THEM  TO  RETURN 

i 

0  prodigal  son,  O  recreant  daughter, 

When  broken  by  the  death  of  a  child 

You  called  for  the  greybeard  Campbellite  elder, 

Who  spoke  as  of  old  in  the  wild. 

His  voice  held  echoes  of  the  deep  woods  of  Kentucky. 

He  towered  in  apostolic  state, 

While  the  portrait  of  Campbell  emerged  from  the  dark 

That  genius  beautiful  and  great. 

And  millennial  trumpets  poised,  half  lifted, 

Millennial  trumpets  that  wait. 

n 

Like  the  woods  of  old  Kentucky 
The  memories  of  childhood 

Arch  up  to  where  gold  chariot  wheels  go  ringing, 
To  where  the  precious  airs  are  terraces  and  roadways 
For  witnesses  to  God,  forever  singing. 


176  ALEXANDER  CAMPBELL 

Like  Mammoth  Cave,  Kentucky,  the  memories  of  child 
hood 

Go  in  and  hi  forever  underground 

To  river  and  fountain  of  whispering  and  mystery 

And  many  a  haunted  hall  without  a  sound. 

To  Indian  hoards  and  carvings  and  graveyards  unex 
plored. 

To  pits  so  deep  a  torch  turns  to  a  star 

Whirling  'round  and  going  down  to  the  deepest  rocks  of 
earth, 

To  the  fiery  roots  of  forests  brave  and  far. 

ra 

As  I  built  cob-houses  with  small  cousins  on  the  floor : 
(The  talk  was  not  meant  for  me). 
Daguerreotypes  shone.     The  back  log  sizzled 
And  my  grandmother  traced  the  family  tree. 
Then  she  swept  to  the  proverbs  of  Campbell  again. 
And  we  glanced  at  the  portrait  of  that  most  benign  of 

men 

Looking  down  through  the  evening  gleam 
With  a  bit  of  Andrew  Jackson's  air, 
More  of  Henry  Clay 

And  the  statesmen  of  Thomas  Jefferson's  day: 
With  the  face  of  age, 


ALEXANDER  CAMPBELL  177 

And  the  flush  of  youth, 

And  that  air  of  going  on,  forever  free. 


For  once  upon  a  time  .  .  . 

Long,  long  ago  .  .  . 

In  the  holy  forest  land 

There  was  a  jolly  pre-millennial  band, 

When  that  text-armed  apostle,  Alexander  Campbell 

Held  deathless  debate  with  the  wicked  "  infi-del." 

The  clearing  was  a  picnic  ground. 

Squirrels  were  barking. 

The  seventeen  year  locust  charged  by.; 

Wild  turkeys  perched  on  high. 

And  millions  of  wild  pigeons 

Broke  the  limbs  of  trees, 

Then  shut  out  the  sun,  as  they  swept  on  their  way. 

But  ah,  the  wilder  dove  of  God  flew  down 

To  bring  a  secret  glory,  and  to  stay, 

With  the  proud  hunter-trappers,  patriarchs  that  came 

To  break  bread  together  and  to  pray 

And  oh  the  music  of  each  living  throbbing  thing 

When  Campbell  arose, 

A  pillar  of  fire, 

The  great  high  priest  of  the  Spring. 


178  ALEXANDER  CAMPBELL 

He  stepped  from  out  the  Brush  Run  Meeting  House 

To  make  the  big  woods  his  cathedrals, 

The  river  his  baptismal  font, 

The  rolling  clouds  his  bells, 

The  storming  skies  his  waterfalls, 

His  pastures  and  his  wells. 

Despite  all  sternness  in  his  word 

Richer  grew  the  rushing  blood 

Within  our  fathers'  coldest  thought. 

Imagination  at  the  flood 

Made  flowery  all  they  heard. 

The  deep  communion  cup 

Of  the  whole  South  lifted  up. 

Who  were  the  witnesses,  the  great  cloud  of  witnesses 

With  which  he  was  compassed  around  ? 

The  heroes  of  faith  from  the  days  of  Abraham 

Stood  on  that  blue-grass  ground  — 

While  the  battle-ax  of  thought 

Hewed  to  the  bone 

That  the  utmost  generation 

Till  the  world  was  set  right 

Might  have  an  America  their  own. 

For  religion  Dionysian 

Was  far  from  Campbell's  doctrine. 


ALEXANDER  CAMPBELL  179 

He  preached  with  faultless  logic 

An  American  Millennium : 

The  social  order 

Of  a  realist  and  farmer 

With  every  neighbor 

Within  stone  wall  and  border. 

And  the  tongues  of  flame  came  down 

Almost  in  spite  of  him. 

And  now  all  but  that  Pentecost  is  dim. 


rv 

I  walk  the  forest  by  the  Daniel  Boone  trail. 

By  guide  posts  quaint. 

And  the  blazes  are  faint 

In  the  rough  old  bark 

Of  silver  poplars 

And  elms  once  slim, 

Now  monoliths  tall. 

I  walk  the  aisle, 

The  cathedral  hall 

That  is  haunted  still 

With  chariots  dim, 

Whispering  still 

With  debate  and  call. 


180  ALEXANDER  CAMPBELL 

I  come  to  you  from  Campbell. 

Turn  again,  prodigal 

Haunted  by  his  name ! 

Artist,  singer,  builder, 

The  forest's  son  or  daughter ! 

You,  the  blasphemer 

Will  yet  know  repentance, 

And  Campbell  old  and  grey 

Will  lead  you  to  the  dream-side 

Of  a  pennyroyal  river. 

While  your  proud  heart  is  shaken 

Your  confession  will  be  taken 

And  your  sins  baptized  away. 


You,  statesman-philosopher, 

Sage  with  high  conceit 

Who  speak  of  revolutions,  in  long  words, 

And  guide  the  little  world  as  best  you  may : 

I  come  to  you  from  Campbell 

And  say  he  rides  your  way 

And  will  wait  with  you  the  coming  of  his  day, 

His  horse  still  threads  the  forest, 

Though  the  storm  be  roaring  down.  .  .  . 


ALEXANDER  CAMPBELL  181 

Campbell  enters  now  your  log-house  door. 
Indeed  you  make  him  welcome,  after  many  years, 
While  the  children  build  cob-houses  on  the  floor. 

Let  a  thousand  prophets  have  their  due. 

Let  each  have  his  boat  in  the  sky. 

But  you  were  born  for  his  secular  millennium 

With  the  old  Kentucky  forest  blooming  like  Heaven, 

And  the  red  birds  flying  high. 


THE  END 


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